


Hurricane

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Series: at last, the dawn [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: (you know the one), Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pirates, Romance, Slow Burn, aspects of piracy will be inaccurate, i'm a sucker for a good pirate romance, pirate hierarchy aspects will be inaccurate, read too much outlander/played too much assassin's creed, spoilers for ac4, summary from a Halsey song, title from a MS MR song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 88,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>We endure.</i>"</p><p>the story of a woman lost in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> ta-dah. I'm baaaaack <3! I had so much fun with _Blinding_ that this was inevitable. Hope you guys like it!

Abstergo have long since abandoned the temple but they've left their mark.

Amelie has never cared much for the Pieces of Eden, not until recently, and ordinarily the footprints and the dirt that marks the millennia old stone wouldn't bother her in the slightest. But now she's seen their power for herself, now she knows what the First Civ were close to accomplishing, and to see one of their sites so disrespected like this sets her temper flaring.

"Well," says Shaun in her ear, "you can tell Abstergo have been here, can't you? If the destruction and incessant uncaring for anything they can't use to further their power doesn't give it away, I'm sure the smell will. Ams, does it smell?"

"It does," she concedes amusedly, pressing further into the dark and cavernous space. The thin beam of light from the torch strapped to her backpack offers very little aid, and serves only to make her wary of every shadow she casts on the stone walls.

"Well, there you go," continues Shaun haughtily. Amelie stumbles on a crack in the stone at her feet, loses her footing momentarily, a shout caught in her throat. Shaun hisses. "Yes, do be careful, Ams, won't you? The last thing we need is another Esme Addison situation."

She collects herself, straightens, and huffs quietly, irritated.

"It would be a lot easier without your," she pauses, searching for the word, " _incessant_ talking in my ear."

"Don't blame us because you're not paying attention, Ams," chimes in Rebecca, before Shaun can say another word.

"I wasn't blaming _you_ ," Amelie bites back, and when she walks forward, she's more cautious. "This would be so much easier if the lights would come on."

This temple is nothing like the last one Amelie had been in; it's smaller and quieter, darker and dirtier, and not quite so grand as the Grand Temple had been. She can still remember the feel of the smooth stone beneath her fingers as she grazed it gently when she walked past, can still remember the bright blue of the lights on her skin. She can still remember that damn door, that impossible choice, and Desmond making the wrong one.

 _No_ , Amelie corrects herself, peering cautiously over the ledge, wondering how deep into the earth this temple goes. _Not the wrong choice. The_ _valiant_ _choice._

She shakes her head to snap herself out of those thoughts. Now isn't the time, she tells herself, to be reflecting on these things, on the dead. The dead won't forgive her for it, and she won't forgive herself for being distracted.

She sighs, pushing aside a strand of copper hair that's fallen into her eyes.

"What if we're too late?" she wonders aloud, seeing the dark stone ahead, craning her head back to see it disappearing high above her head. Dust flutters into the beam of light at her shoulder, disturbed and peaceful, and she reaches out to touch the cold stone, to feel the engravings left by a civilisation long gone.

 _My mother would love this_ , she thinks, so quick to forget what she'd told herself not a minute before. _Esme would have gone wild_.

Directly to her left is a large hole, blown in the rock by Abstergo in their haste to break through. She pushes down the anger that flares at the sight – _such beautiful craftsmanship from far,_ _far_ _beyond our time, treated like shit beneath their shoe_ – and ducks through.

"Fucking Templars," curses Rebecca and Amelie hums her agreement.

She's careful and considerate as she clambers through, hands gripping dusty rubble and heaving herself over larger pieces, careful of every step, wary of every sound in these silent halls. The curve of her bow scrapes the stone over her head and the white feathers atop her arrows ghost over it gently.

 _White_? She remembers Desmond asking, fascinated.

She'd shrugged and leaned forward to swipe the arrow he'd been examining from him. _It's my signature_.

The room she straightens up in is just as large as the one before but there's a light stemming from a console at the end of the walkway. It's white and dim, pulsating at intervals and the closer she gets, the brighter it seems to become.

"Fascinating," murmurs Shaun in her ear. "It could be a power console of some kind or- or a module of information. Can you get closer, Ams?"

She approaches it slowly, cautiously, feeling the weight of her quiver on her back and her Kukri at her thigh. The hilt of the blade, once white ivory and with veins of black that run like blood, is now grey and dirty, evidence of the use it has received from the generations of her family.

 _It was my mother's before me_ , Amelie's mother had told her, _and her mother's before her_. _Now it's yours_.

It's nothing like the one Amelie keeps hidden in their vault, protected in a glass case, with their family's words engraved on the dull silver blade. It's never used, hasn't been used since Amelie's great-something grandmother, but Amelie doesn't think she ever could use it anyway, even if she wanted to. She doesn't feel worthy of the prestige that comes with it, hardly feels worthy to hold the burden of her family's name.

That Kukri blade is reserved for someone far more deserving than she could ever be.

The console glows brighter and brighter the closer Amelie gets to it, and something heavy settles in her stomach, a wariness as she continues to approach. She doesn't feel in control anymore; something has come over her limbs and is pulling her forwards.

"Fascinating," murmurs Shaun again. "It's still in working condition."

"Why would Abstergo leave it behind?" ponders Rebecca aloud, giving voice to Amelie's own thoughts.

Amelie circles the console, examining every crack and crevice, searching for clues and coming up with nothing. She sighs in exasperation, ready to give up, but feeling like there's something else here that she needs to find.

"It can't be removed," Amelie says aloud. "It's built in to the stone itself."

The console's light pulses once, twice, bright and getting brighter. Set atop the console, catching the light from her torch, is silver pendant, dangling from a thin black cord. Amelie recognises the pendant; the small pearl orb found from one of their missions, a minor distraction that had nearly cost them their lives. Engraved with expert craftsmanship is the symbol of their Brotherhood and Amelie rubs her thumb gently over the marking wistfully.

At the doorway, she hears voices.

"Amelie," warns Rebecca but too late.

Amelie ducks behind the console, reaching for her bow and nocking an arrow, and gunshots ricochet and echo around her. With her back to the stone and facing a dead end, Amelie feels every bit like the prey that fell for the trap. She peers round the corner of the stone, slams her back against just in time to avoid a bullet that would have no doubt killed her.

"It's Berg," she gasps breathlessly, and she hears Rebecca's whispered curses, hears the tapping of the keys on the keyboard as Shaun hurriedly tries to find an escape for her.

But there isn't one.

Amelie lines up the shot, prepares to step out from behind the stone console, and face her death head on. The gunshots have halted momentarily but she can hear their steps on the walkway as they approach, hunting her in a space where she has very little opportunity to hide.

"Well," murmurs Amelie with morbid amusement, "it's been nice knowing you guys."

"Amelie," says Rebecca, "don't do anything rash- "

"Please," she scoffs, "you know me, Becks. _Rash_ is my middle name."

In any other situation, she knows Shaun would have some kind of witty and sarcastic remark to make, but her situation is too dire, too dangerous, and the odds are too stacked against her.

So Amelie takes a deep breath, imagines that she's somewhere else, and spins out from the rock, pulling back the string of her bow and letting loose the arrow.

The white feather sails through the darkness and she hears the pained shout as it hits its target, reaching into her quiver for another arrow and taking another kill, silently, in the way she appreciates her bow for. Her surprise attack doesn't last long and guns start going off again, bullets start whizzing past her head again, and Amelie ducks behind the console once more, reaching into her pack for a smoke canister, eyeing the crudely painted yellow smiley face over the symbol of their Brotherhood and thinking distractedly that this might possibly be her last stand.

"Sorry guys," she murmurs to Shaun and Rebecca. "Looks like you're getting another Esme Addison situation after all."

"Ams- "

"Amelie, _no_ \- "

She doesn't hear anything else. She tugs the piece from her ear, unwilling to listen to anything else, finding that the mere thought of hearing her friends calling for her, talking to her and unable to help her unbearable. She pulls another arrow from her quiver, sets it gently against the string, and throws her head against the stone behind her, staring blankly at the ceiling so far above, at the darkness above her head.

The agents are closer to her now. She reaches for the smoke canister she'd laid on the ground. The light from the console behind her pulses brighter. She can hear Shaun and Rebecca, still saying her name, desperate.

Amelie takes a deep breath.

She crouches, gets ready to spin into view, holding the canister in her hand and ready to throw. The light from the console is blinding, staggering, and Amelie and the agents stumble away from it. She hears shouting, panicked and high-pitched; she thinks she can hear Otso Berg, shouting for a retreat, but Amelie can't see anything but the light, can't hear anything but the sound of waves all around her, gulls screeching over her head and explosions.

And then she falls.

* * *

All she can see is blue, swallowing her whole, engulfing her senses, suffocating.

She's going to die, she thinks, die in this bottomless pit of water that hadn't come up anywhere on their scans of the Temple.

 _How could we have missed this_? She thinks deliriously, pumping her arms and legs upwards, desperately searching for a way out, a light above her that signals a surface. _Surely this would have come up somewhere_!

She sees it as black darkens her vision, creeping in at the sides when all seems lost. A bright light, high over her head, and a rippling surface. She doesn't think about it much, can't afford to until she can breathe again, and when she breaks the surface, the first breath is so sweet and a relief.

Amelie allows herself time to simply breathe, to float in the great expanse of water she has found herself in, and, when she's finished with that, to panic.

" _What the fuck_ ," she manages to say around panting gasps.

Here the sky seems to stretch forever in every direction she turns, bright crystalline blue like the water, and there's not a cloud to be seen in the sky. There's a dark blue line to signal the horizon and no ships or planes or anything in sight.

Amelie's never been an optimist.

"I'm going to die," she murmurs, spitting out salt water and treading water.

She's never imagined that drowning would be the way she goes; she always thought that, inevitably, Abstergo would catch up to her, that Otso Berg would put a bullet in her skull like he's done so many of her friends. She always thought she would go out fighting, with her bow in her hand and an arrow nocked, not like this.

There are no islands in sight, no land for her to try and swim to, and no sign of rescue.

 _How did this happen_? She worries, turning on the spot again, searching for something, anything, that might guarantee her safety for just a little while longer. She spies a length of wood, oddly, larger than a plank but no bigger than a door, and she makes her way to it, some flicker of hope inside her still burning.

" _Merde_ ," she mumbles, spitting water from her mouth again. " _Merde_!"

She can almost hear her mother scolding her, can almost see the disappointed scowl on her face at Amelie's words.

"Amelie," she's saying, looking down at her even though that's impossible because Amelie's alone and scared and _in the middle of nowhere_. " _Mon trésor_ , you mustn't say such awful things."

Amelie clambers atop the board of wood, dark and warm under her fingers. It holds her weight and she turns to lie on her back, gasping for breath and staring upwards at an endless expanse of clear blue sky.

 _The temple_ , Amelie thinks, closing her eyes as the sun beats hot on her skin. _I was in the Caribbean, wasn't I? Did the explosion make it sink into the ocean?_

It's not possible; the temple was on an island. She doesn't want to consider the possibility of First Civ technology being so advanced that it could sink an entire island when threatened.

Her head drops onto the board as she considers her position; she's in the middle of nowhere, missing her bow, and armed with nothing but the hidden blades strapped to her arms and the quiver of arrows on her back. She pats down her pockets, searching, and pulls out the black cord and pendant she'd found in the temple. The bright sun reflects on its surface, catching the smooth edges and reminding Amelie of when she'd found it; a beautiful, bright day like this but under different circumstances.

Esme had been thrilled...

Amelie swallows and slips the cord over her neck. The cord is long and the pendant easily hidden under her shirt, in the way Esme had almost always worn it; _never compromise the Brotherhood_ , she always said, parroting the words Amelie told her upon their first meeting when she'd saved her life.

"Esme," Amelie whispers, "god, I'm so sorry."

* * *

She drifts off somehow, lounging lazily on this board of wood in the middle of the ocean, and when she opens her eyes and brushes her thick auburn hair from her face, she sees sails.

They're getting closer, white and plump with the wind, and she sits up as her heart plummets to her stomach. Sails... people don't use ships like that anymore, do they? She doesn't want to think any more on it, sure that her brain will start hurting if she thinks about it too much, and she's squinting against the bright sunlight, daring to hope that it might be coming closer to her.

She inhales shakily, once, twice...

"Thank god," she says and her smile shakes like her hands. She starts to wave her hands over her head, irrationally and stupidly, and she's shouting nonsense, unworried about how she sounds because there's no one to hear her yet anyway.

It's hours before the ship gets any closer to her and she feels incredibly small beside it. It towers over her, dark wood and shouts from above, and there are heads poking over the side and staring down at her, none of them looking too friendly.

Amelie nearly regrets her decision.

There's a rope thrown overboard that lands in the water near her, looped in the ways she's seen in movies, and she dives into the water, throwing it over her head and tightening it around her waist.

As soon as her feet are out of the water and on solid wood, she breathes a sigh of relief, kneeling against the wood and absurdly grateful to these people.

 _No_ , she thinks, daring to look around her, _men. There's not a woman on board_.

She soaking wet again, her clothes sticking to her like a second skin, and around her the men have frozen, staring at her stupidly and with curious eyes and slack-jawed expressions. But her eyes are drawn more to their clothing; loose breeches and boots, swords and flintlock pistols hanging at their waists. Some are wearing white shirts, stained from working on the ship and loose like their trousers, with long sleeves rolled up their arms. Others are shirtless, showing off impressive physiques and tattoos; Amelie glances at her left wrist where, just above the bracer of her hidden blade, she can see one of her own tattoos, though it seems small and meek in comparison to the pieces of artwork she can see on some of the skin around her.

She rubs gingerly at the two words there with her thumb, traces the elegant cursive of the black ink, while the men around her titter and mutter.

"A woman," one mutters, "bad luck to have a woman on board."

"Somebody ought to get the captain."

"Kidd'll want t' know."

"Aye, there's that too."

Amelie's eyes travel up the mast, her neck craning back as she follows it, the ropes and sails, the man in the crow's nest high above her peering down curiously. Over his head, she sees a flag, and the Brotherhood's symbol in its centre only does so much to calm her suddenly panicked breathing.

 _Pirates_ , Amelie thinks frantically, and then, near deliriously, _Assassin pirates_?!

The more logical part of her mind starts to panic then; pirates nowadays wouldn't be so stupid as to use a ship like this. It's slow and heavy and reliant on the winds – why use this when you would stand no chance escaping a motorboat or a helicopter?

 _None of this makes sense_ , she agonises, near tears and terrified, while overhead another voice joins the tittering, cutting through Amelie's crowd of onlookers like a knife.

They part to allow the newcomer through and Amelie is expecting a large man, with a bushy beard and a large hat with a feather atop it. Instead, he's thin and sleek and strolling easily towards her, with scars on his face and floppy dark hair pushed back by a red bandana. He watches her critically, eyes looking over her quickly and without care, and Amelie starts to catalogue his various weapons, preparing for a fight.

A sword at his side and flintlock pistols – heavy and prone to misfire; why would these men be using them in the middle of the ocean? Damp gunpowder causes misfires! – and she can see a variety of throwing knives strapped to his thigh.

Lastly, she sees the bracers on his forearms, the leather light and worn, and he sees hers.

She meets his eyes, dark blue and nothing like the shining ocean around them, and they're surrounded by dark kohl, making him appear far more intimidating that he first seemed.

She sees the symbol on the bracers, the point and curves, and she drops her arms, showing him the same symbol on the dark leather of her own bracers.

"Nothing is true," she says, and her voice is strong and carries over the crowd.

"Everything is permitted," he finishes and Amelie's smile is relieved. He relaxes and Amelie feels the tension dissipating from the air. She casts her eyes skyward, thanking whoever's up there, to whoever's watching out for her, that she would find herself so fortunate.

"What happened to you, lass?" asks the man and he holds out a hand, helping her to her feet.

Amelie accepts the help.

She immediately stumbles and she knows she would have fallen to the deck once more if not for his grip on her arms, steadying her.

"I see ye haven't got yer sea legs yet," he says around a chuckle. "What're ye doing so far out at sea?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she says breathlessly.


	2. Surfacing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie meets Kidd properly and he introduces her to Ah Tabai and life on Tulum.

His name is James Kidd and the ship she is on is headed for Tulum, the home of the West Indies Brotherhood.

Amelie keeps her cards close to her chest; she doesn't tell him about the temple she had been in, or the suffocating feeling that engulfed her, or waking up in the ocean and nearly drowning. She doesn't tell him that she thinks she's on a prank show, as stupid as that sounds even to her ( _why the hell would Abstergo try to prank me when they want to kill me? Why would Shaun and Rebecca after everything that's happened to us_?) and she doesn't tell him that she doesn't understand why they're using an old ship like this when engines have been invented for near a century.

But it doesn't matter, none of that matters, because Kidd looks her up and down more than once and seems to be coming to his own conclusions.

"My name is Amelie," she introduces in turn but she has no explanation to give him, no words to say that will sate his curiosity. "Amelie Crawley."

He hums considerately. "Crawley," he repeats. "I know that name."

Amelie's not surprised; she's descended from a long line of Crawley's, dating so far back that she'd gotten frustrated and told Esme to shove off with her research. The Crawley name is prestigious, her mother used to tell her way back when, and once inspired respect and awe in the Assassin Bureaus. It hasn't been like that in a long time, Amelie knows, because the name died out with her grandmother, and she only has it because her mother _chose_ it.

"It's a popular name," she tells Kidd.

He smirks, the twitching of his skin pulling on the silvery white scar that mars the right side of his face. It cuts through the eyebrow and down his cheek, adding to his rugged appearance and making him appear even more attractive to her.

 _Esme always told me I had a thing for scars_ , Amelie thinks, and her thoughts turn briefly to Desmond, to the scar that cut through his lips and drove her wild. Amelie had only kissed him once, a desperate plea that hadn't been enough and a farewell.

"That doesn't explain how ye got so far out t' sea," muses Kidd, leaning against the desk behind him and fixing her with a calculative stare. It's discomforting, she thinks, to be on the receiving end of a stare like this when she's so used to giving it.

"I can't explain it," Amelie tells him, "because I don't know how."

He appears sceptical, more so now than he had before, and Amelie scrambles for an excuse, for something that will buy her more time – and will allow her to keep her life. This _Kidd_ might be an assassin too but Amelie has no doubts of his convictions and she doesn't doubt that is he mistrusts her even _slightly_ she'll end up right back in that water.

 _The truth_ , she thinks, _what have I got to lose_?

Only her life.

"There was a temple," she starts carefully, mindful of how crazy she probably sounds, "and I was attacked. Next thing I know I woke up under water. I nearly drowned."

Kidd ponders her words, his thumb playing with his lip, and Amelie can do nothing but wait for his response. She twists her hair around her fingers, tugging gently to ground herself, and her eyes drift to the window at Kidd's back. There's still a bright blue sky and gentle waves and no other ships to be seen.

Amelie's starting to realise that things might not be so simple as they seem; all that's happening is too elaborate to be a hoax and Amelie knows Shaun and Rebecca would never do such a thing as this. Amelie doesn't want to consider any other options but she doesn't have much else to believe.

What other explanation is there for the sails on these ships? What other explanation is there for the men around her, their clothes and mannerisms?

 _Bad luck to have a woman on board_ , one had hissed. How many people still believe that now? How many people are still so superstitious as all that?

"With the wind in our sails," Kidd says, "we'll reach Tulum in three days. You're welcome t' stay here, if ye like."

Amelie does not try to hide her wariness.

"It's my cabin," he says, "no one will bother ye here."

Amelie nods slowly and her fingers fiddle with the black cord around her neck. The action draws Kidd's attention and his dark brows furrow; Amelie draws the pendant into the light and cradles it in her palm.

"What's that?" asks Kidd, coming closer and closer until Amelie flinches and starts to raise her fist. He shows his palms in response but doesn't seem surprised at her reaction; she wonders if he understands. Amelie doesn't trust him, even if he is being kind to her, even if he _is_ another assassin. She's lived her whole life on the run, lived her whole life at war, and her allies – those she's had – have been short lived or had short lives.

Amelie clenches her fists as her heart gives a lurch; Daniel, Clay, Desmond, her mother...

"It belonged to a friend," she admits reluctantly and she sees the realisation on Kidd's face at her words.

He nods. "Sorry I asked."

"You didn't know." Amelie bites the bullet. "What's the date?"

His dark brows furrow again and Amelie fixes her stare on his scar impatiently, clenching and unclenching her fists and steadfastly ignoring the way he's looking at her; he thinks she's crazy, she knows, and perhaps she is.

"Tuesday, 26th of June," he says slowly, "the year of our lord 1714."

Amelie vomits on his boots.

* * *

He tells her it's not the first time it's happened and assumes it's because she was very good at hiding her sea-sickness.

"Ye didn't even look green," he'd cries jovially, chuckling as she wipes at her mouth and winces at the smell.

" _Merde_ ," she mutters, and her cheeks feel hot. "God, I'm sorry."

"I've dealt with worse," he says. He leans against the desk next to her and she watches him adjust his hidden blades. "I imagine you have too?"

 _Yes_ , she wants to say, _and I still am_ , but all she can manage is a tired nod.

He nods in return. "Come on," he urges. "The fresh air will do ye some good."

He helps her walk – because as soon as she stands she falls again, unable to get her feet beneath her and unable to stay upright against the swaying and jostling of the ship – and his scowl is enough to stay the angry muttering of the crew around her.

Amelie's thumb traces the words on her wrist, the black ink of the tattoo she had gotten after her mother's death. How silly she had been with that decision, how immature – how close had Abstergo come to catching her after that? How embarrassed had she been when Bill chewed her out for it?

And how certain had she been when she decided then and there that she was going to get another one?

Kidd had given her permission to leave her quiver and bag in the cabin, the arrows there all but useless without her recurve bow – and she's going to _miss_ shooting her arrows into the eyes of her doubters, going to _miss_ the shock apparent on the faces of her attackers – and now she's armed with only her hidden blades.

She misses her Kukri, with the ivory hilt and the wolf's head and black veins; it was her great-something grandmother's, a family heirloom handed to her by her mother, and while she had scorned the sentimentality of it all and cared only for its uses, now she misses it. She hated the reminder it was, hated the weight she felt she had to lift when she wielded it, but it was familiar and now it's gone.

There's a light wind that breezes through her hair and Amelie wishes she had braided it in the cabin before they emerged. She keeps running her hand through the tangles as she brushes her hair away from her eyes, and the mess of curls smells faintly of sea-salt and still, remarkably, of her raspberry shampoo.

 _How long will it be before I can use that again_? Amelie wonders, leaning heavily on the wooden surface under her hands. Kidd leans idly next to her, undisturbed by the rocking of the ship under their feet, and watching her curiously but warily.

Amelie feels like a prisoner – and perhaps that is how she will remain until she reaches Tulum and speaks with the Mentor there. Until she finds out if Esme's there, until she finds out if Esme, by some _miracle_ , is alive.

Is this the Temple's purpose, Amelie wonders, is this the reason Esme suddenly fell off the grid? What else were the First Civ capable of, if they could do this?

Thinking of Esme makes her suddenly frantic with realisation; is Esme here in 1714? Their first instinct as assassins is to seek out the Brotherhood when they've found themselves in unfamiliar territory – will she be in Tulum, waiting for Amelie when the ship docks?

"Has anyone else surfaced here?" she asks desperately, pleading eyes searching Kidd's face helplessly. "Another woman?"

Amelie can see the answer on Kidd's face before he speaks; he seems puzzled and he eventually shakes his head.

"Only you, lass," he says. "Sorry t' disappoint ye."

She turns her eyes towards the horizon once more, fists clenched on the wooden railing under her fingers. The Temple sent her here, she convinces herself, which means it must have sent Esme here too. Maybe Kidd just hasn't heard about her yet, maybe she's found the assassins and will meet her at their Caribbean headquarters. Maybe she's in trouble, trapped with the Templars and forced to do their bidding.

 _I can't lose hope_ , Amelie thinks with a sigh. _As soon as I lose hope, all is lost_.

They're Esme's words, said in her mind and a memory from long ago, from before it all went to hell and they lost contact.

She regrets everything that happened between them now, words thrown back and forth like knives and hurting just as much; Esme had needed her and Amelie had stayed behind, watching over Desmond in his coma and grieving for Lucy – her assassin sister turned Templar and traitor but none of that mattered because she meant so much to Amelie. Lucy had been an ally and confidant, one of the oldest Amelie had, and Esme's biting words about her had been the straw that broke the camel's back for Amelie.

 _Go_ , she had said, _if this is so important. I'll only be here trying to save the world_.

And the in the end none of it had mattered anyway. She'd lost three friends and was no better off for it.

 _She needs me_ , she'd told Shaun in the aftermath, when she'd found Esme's journal in the safe house and Desmond was gone.

 _So do we_ , Shaun had said. _Esme chose to leave, Ams. That's not on you_.

But it was and Amelie had tried to find her regardless.

"It was a long shot anyway," she mumbles, hating the way she'd gotten hopeful.

 _Nothing comes easy in life_ , _mon trésor,_ her mother says, _for everything you must fight_. _That's what we Crawley's do_.

Amelie's eyes flicker to her wrist again, to the cursive words tattooed there; _we endure_.

"Alright," she sighs, because how long has Amelie been fighting now? When will it ever end? "Okay." She takes a deep breath. "Tulum – what's the Mentor there like?"

Ah Tabai, she learns is his name, and Kidd seems fairly confident that he will take her words in earnest when she explains it all to him. Wise, she tells herself to remember, and compassionate – Kidd tells her it is for this reason he is confident the Mentor will help Amelie.

"And the war?" she asks, though she's loathe to.

Esme used to tell her that the more she asked about the war, the more effort she put into it, the more disappointed she would be.

"We have the Templars runnin' scared," Kidd says proudly and a little smugly. He folds his arms across his chest and smirks at her. "I suppose it's the same where you come from?"

Amelie wants to correct him – _when_ , she thinks, _when I'm from_ – but she has a feeling Kidd is already putting the pieces together anyway. If the Mentor in Tulum is as wise as Kidd tells her, she's no doubt in her mind that it's in her best interest to be upfront and honest about her situation to him and perhaps she will trust Kidd with it then as well.

"We're losing," Amelie admits, and it pains her to do so. They _were_ winning, for just a smidgen of a moment and then it all went to shit. "Just when we get a leg up, they come along and knock our feet out from under us."

Kidd's expression remains carefully blank, though Amelie wonders if she sees a flicker of dismay in his eyes – they're dark blue, she sees now, hidden as they are behind the dark kohl smudged on his eyelids. Amelie doesn't blame him for his feelings – she's growing tired of fighting when nothing seems to be coming from it but pain – but she's a soldier and an assassin, and this is what she has been raised to do.

Kidd smirks. "It'll be a change for ye then," he quips, "t' be winnin' for once."

Behind his words, Amelie hears the sorrow and she can't help but feel like it would have been better if she'd kept her mouth shut. If this man, assassin, _pirate_ , whatever he seems to be, is truly as smart as Amelie believes him to be, surely she should never have told him that the assassins are losing in 2013? Surely it would have been better to lie to him, to keep the messy reality a secret for as long as possible? After all, what use is fighting here, in 1714, when it will all be for naught in the future?

"Yes," she agrees anyway. "I suppose it will be."

* * *

She's glad to be off the boat – "ship," Kidd had corrected irritably, when Amelie had sighed her relief at no longer needing his help to walk in a straight line anymore – and the sentiment is returned ten-fold, she thinks, by the men.

She identifies Ah Tabai immediately; hooded and calm and dangerous, standing at the forefront of the group that meets them on the beach. There are white markings painted on his skin – Esme would be able to identify them, Amelie thinks with dismay, but all she can do is frown at them dubiously – and his robes are different than any she has ever encountered.

 _But then_ , Amelie thinks, as Kidd engages the Mentor in courteous greetings, _things are different where I'm from, aren't they? For one, none of us would be caught dead wearing something so bloody obvious_.

The Mentor's robes, with their bronze plates emblazoned with the crest of the Brotherhood and the red sash fastened around his waist, do not scream subtlety to her. Amelie's mother always cautioned discretion and awareness of all around her, and often advised her to remain hidden – _hidden in plain sight_ – as their creed dictated.

Kidd glances over his shoulder at her and Amelie cautiously approaches.

Ah Tabai considers her warily. "James tells me you have no recollection of the events that led you to him. Is this true?"

Amelie swallows nervously, an argument on her lips – she had told Kidd how she got to the sea, how she got to _him_ ; why would he tell the Mentor otherwise?

Kidd shoots her a warning stare, his eyes dark with something Amelie doesn't care to identify.

 _Okay_ , she thinks, her gaze swivelling back to the Mentor. _I'll play along_.

"Yes," she says quietly, unsurely, utilising the acting skills she's depended on so often in her life. "It's true."

The Mentor eyes her up and down, slowly, and over his shoulder stand others, assassins of various heights and ethnicities, wearing robes so similar to the Mentors and yet so different; there's no subtlety to them, Amelie thinks, and they're showing so much skin it can't be safe. It's blisteringly hot, she knows, because her t-shirt is dark with sweat and sticking to her skin, and what she wouldn't give to be wearing shorts instead of her skinny jeans.

They all scrutinise her, some with curled lips and sneers and others with sympathy and curiosity. She sees elbows jabbed in sides, nods towards the quiver on her back, towards the hidden blades on her arms; hers are designed differently to theirs, made for a time where openly carrying weapons is a cause for concern. Theirs are made for a time where swordfights and duels are at their height, a time were weapons are a necessity.

She hears the mutters, hears the jibes and taunts whispered behind hands and under breaths. They think her not so threatening.

Her temper flares and a flush rises to her cheeks.

 _I'll prove them wrong_ , she thinks vehemently, her hands clenched into fists at her side. She's been doing it her whole life, after all, fighting the brush that has tarred her since birth. _I'm not like them._

Amelie has always known that this would be her life, fighting in this war. She followed where her mother led, and learned the lessons she was taught well, and she didn't need Esme's encouragement to learn about her family – her mother had already told her all about them.

 _We have a legacy to protect, mon trésor_ , she always told her. _It is our duty to fight_.

Desmond had the right idea, Amelie always believed. He left the Farm and lived his life the way they were all supposed to; _free_. She finds it ironic that _that_ 's what she's supposed to be fighting for, freedom and peace and liberty, yet they seem to be the things she doesn't _have_.

"Then we have much to discuss," says Ah Tabai, drawing her from her thoughts and dispersing the crowd behind him easily. They stand to the side as she passes, their gazes ever watchful, and Amelie spitefully refuses to be cowed, lifting her chin defiantly and following after Kidd and the Mentor.

* * *

The Mentor drops the façade as soon as they're in the safety of his tent, before the flaps have even shut behind her. Kidd stands to her left, his presence felt, and Amelie dutifully takes a seat when gestured, slipping free of her quiver and setting it at her feet with her bag. Ah Tabai glances at it blankly and at the empty sheathe strapped to her thigh, where once rested her lost Kukri.

"Tell me the truth," demands the Mentor. "Who are you?"

"Amelie Crawley," she responds steadily and her story spills free immediately, all of it; from the Temple and Berg, to the sea and the blue that suffocated, to Kidd and his ship.

The Mentor listens aptly, unnerving in his silence, until she finishes, trailing off sullenly as her words catch up with the events of the present. Kidd has moved to perch on the log next to her, frowning intently at his feet.

"Is there anyone who can defend your claims?" asks Ah Tabai, curiously and suspiciously.

Frustrated, Amelie snaps, "Yes, but you won't be able to get in touch with any of them because _they haven't been born yet_."

He's unimpressed but surprised and Amelie is so tired quite suddenly, wishing for peace and quiet and a dark corner to shed her tears. She needs a good cry, she thinks, a good cry to express it all, to set her stress behind her and move on. After that's done she can focus on finding Esme – because this is one island in the world, one island in 1714, and her friend is _here_ , she _must be_ – and finding that temple and getting them _home_.

"James mentioned another," Ah Tabai says and Amelie's eyes shot towards the man in question, laced with betrayal. "Another woman?"

Amelie knows now that she should have kept her mouth shut. It might have been better for her to keep her worries about Esme to herself, to have waited until she reached Tulum and then started her search. Amelie's spent enough time alone to know how to handle herself – after her mother died, she branched out and left the Farm, following in Desmond's footsteps but never daring to seek him out. That was how she'd met Esme, a mistake on her friend's part that had Amelie sweeping in to save the day, looking the hero Esme always made her feel.

Begrudgingly, Amelie says, "Yes." Ah Tabai's expectant look says what his words do not and with an angry sigh, Amelie continues, "Esme. She's a friend."

"Another assassin?"

She nods curtly in reply and her bag feels heavy against her feet; Esme's journal is inside it, her notes and rough sketches, letters in envelopes tucked between pages. Amelie can hear her mother scolding her, knows exactly what the woman would be saying – _trust them_ – but it's all so strange to her; _time travel_? Who'd have thought the First Civ would be so advanced that they could make this possible?

 _Really_ , she muses, as the mentor and Kidd engage in a hushed and hissed conversation, their backs turned to her, _I'm doing them a favour. What's in that journal shouldn't be seen by anyone_.

Amelie's seen enough movies and read enough books to know all the bad things that can happen when the past and the future merge; _paradoxes_ , she thinks, _that's a thing right_? She's seen and experienced enough to know that saying too much about the future could _change_ it and the last thing she wants is to be stuck in 1714 when the _real_ war is in 2013.

Desmond sacrificed so much for them, gave his life for nothing and released that _bitch_ into the world, and Amelie's so tired of fighting that she thinks it's almost not _worth_ going back.

 _I don't belong here_ , she worries, _but what's in the future for me anyway_?

"It's what we Crawley's _do_ ," her mother always told her, "we _fight_. So fight, _mon trésor_."

 _I'm not my great-something grandmothers_ , Amelie thinks, dropping her head into her hands with a sigh. _I just want to find Esme and go home_.

"Rest," says Ah Tabai suddenly. "James will show you to your hut."

 _Hut_ , Amelie thinks. _Great_.

* * *

For two days, Amelie sits with the Mentor and Kidd, talking and talking and _talking_ , and she's so sick of it all that a chance to speak to anyone else is a welcome reprieve.

What she gets instead is a wary and curious silence from the other assassins and a lonely and isolating distance. It gives her a chance to explore, in any case, and to examine the assassins who call the island home; different nationalities and looks, different accents and beliefs. Some are Mayan, she finds, like Ah Tabai, with dark skin and dark hair, and she hears French and Spanish, sees pale skin turning red in the burning heat as some fellow Brits chat excitedly beside the target range.

The mannequins are made of straw and they have no faces. Some are more beaten than others, missing arms and legs – one is missing a head – but Amelie's eyes are drawn to the bows beside the swords, old fashioned as they are and made of some kind of wood that's dark.

It's light in her hands and the bowstring is stiff when she tests it and, oh, but she misses her recurve bow so much, misses its familiarity. She doesn't return to her _hut_ – the word itself makes her lip curl; it's stuffy and unbearable and no escape from the heat of the harsh Caribbean sun – for her arrows, her signature, but rather takes a quiver of ordinary ones. Feathers of different colours decorate the ends, soft to the touch, and the first arrow she shoots misses the target.

She tests the string again, pulls it back and releases, pulls it back again; everything's wrong with this bow, so different as it is to _hers_ , back in 2013 – but is it still there? She fell during the fight; is her bow at the bottom of the ocean now? Is it still lying on that temple floor – if the temple is still _there_ , that is?

Her frustration takes root and she nocks another arrow, and another, and another, until she's amassing a crowd and ignoring their titters and whispers. The mannequins are littered with arrows – embedded in the shoulders, in the chest, in the neck and head, and she's gone through forty arrows – two quivers, she notes absently – before she decides to stop.

There are disappointed rumblings and trudging steps as Amelie leaves the area but there's a man in blue and white leaning against a broken mannequin and watching her go, his dark hair damp with sweat.


	3. Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan Walpole sets his sights on Amelie.

"I've used a rope dart before, Mentor," Amelie says and the word is foreign on her tongue. She hasn't called anyone Mentor in a long time. "I just have other preferences."

"And what preferences are those?" questions Ah Tabai and Amelie shrugs, wearing a sardonic smirk as she weights the dart and the coil of rope in her hands.

"Any weapon but the rope dart," she deadpans.

Ah Tabai is unimpressed. In the month since her arrival, Amelie has barely seen Kidd or the Mentor, save in passing and at meals, but the decision for her to remain in Tulum was one she had met with resistance.

_Esme needs me_ , Amelie had nearly said aloud, but instead she had snapped, "I can't stay here!" with no other excuse to convince them to let her leave.

"Your friend," Kidd says, "d'ye know where she is?"

Wordlessly she had shaken her head, grasping at straws and desperate to make them understand without saying _why_.

"Then perhaps," Ah Tabai had said, "it is best for you to remain in one place. Let her come to you."

Their words made sense but if Amelie was right and Esme was _here_ then she'd been here for far longer than Amelie had. She'd left in November, when Desmond had fallen into a coma and Amelie hadn't wanted to leave his side. Esme was sure she had found something that could win the war and their biting words thrown at each other had seen Amelie's friend leave without a goodbye.

Esme could be anywhere in the world, could have sought out any other Brotherhood in the world. If they'd given her the same advice – _stay put, she'll come to you_! – they'd both be at opposite poles and no closer to finding each other.

Amelie tests the weight of the dart in her hand, the rope coiled around the other. It's been years since she practiced with this technique – there's no need for it, after all, when guns have been invented that could kill you far quicker than this small dart could. Ah Tabai's unimpressed with her and she's unimpressed with their old-fashioned weapons (old-fashioned only to her, she knows, but she's angry and looking for an outlet) and she's almost wishing his new pupil would steal him away again.

"Walpole, said his name is," Kidd had told her, lounging against a stone pillar while Amelie shot out her irritation again. "Asked t' be trained by the Mentor and the Mentor _only_."

Amelie's interest had been piqued. "Suspicious," she voiced, eyes narrowed as Kidd fiddled with the flintlock at his side.

Kidd shrugged. "Not really," he said. "Ah Tabai's the best in these West Indies. Walpole's not the first to seek 'im out."

On Amelie's other side, Citlali had joined them, her black hair braided to the side and her eyes trained on the targets Amelie shot at.

"I do not like him," she'd said simply, watching Amelie nock another arrow before turning on her heel and leaving as swiftly as she'd come.

"Don't mind her," Kidd had said, "Citlali doesn't like anyone."

* * *

He approaches her in the aftermath of a hurricane, when she's helping with the tidy up and reflecting on the fact that she's grateful she wasn't on a ship during it. The constant swaying and bobbing of the ship had made her nauseous for all of the three days she had been aboard and journeying to Tulum with Kidd; a hurricane does not sound ideal sailing conditions.

Her hut, remarkably, has remained largely unscathed, but Aapo and many others have not been so lucky. Branches from overhead had been blown atop the huts closest to the jungle, piercing through the thatch roofs, and Amelie understands now why Ah Tabai had insisted they all take shelter in the stone temples that towered over them. The white stone, crumbling in places but the structure remaining largely intact even after all the years, had shielded them from the worst of the storm but given them the unfortunate task of watching the destruction from afar.

No one is injured and Amelie is thankful but if they'd remained in the huts it would have been a different story.

Kidd left a week before, on a mission given to him by the Mentor, and no amount of pleading on her part had convinced him to take her along. Amelie just wants to find Esme and the temple, to leave this madness behind and return to some semblance of normality. Instead it's been nearly three months and she's yet to leave the crumbling ruins of Tulum and the huts and the Brotherhood.

"Do you need assistance?" Duncan Walpole asks with no kindness or hint of sincerity.

Amelie fastens the last of her repair to the roof and hops down, content to ignore him but knowing that perhaps it won't be wise, and she brushes her sweat soaked hair from her forehead. The humidity has made her copper curls more tangled than ever, so thick that a single braid isn't enough to keep the untameable mop in check.

Darcy, a pretty and stern blonde from America – the _Colonies_ , Amelie keeps having to correct herself – sometimes helps her in the morning, when it's still cool and easy to breathe, by splitting her hair into three sections and braiding them, pinning them together on the crown of her head in an up-do Amelie could never hope to replicate alone. The other assassins are starting to warm up to her – Ah Tabai has had a hand in spreading the rumour that Amelie is from London, here to train and learn before she goes home – and while Amelie still wishes for nothing more than to find Esme and leave as soon as possible, she's grateful that she's not feeling quite so tired and alone anymore.

"No," she tells him, adjusting the pins that are starting to slip from the braids. "Thank you, Mr Walpole."

"Duncan, please," he says amiably and she imagines he's hoping the smile he gives her is charming. It makes her skin crawl. "I do believe it's only polite to introduce oneself in return?"

"Amelie Crawley," she tells him bluntly. "Excuse me."

* * *

She finds him watching her more often after that; when she's sparring with Darcy or practising her dart work with Aapo, when she's shooting arrows into targets after a long day.

"I do not like him," Citlali says again one evening, as Amelie's collecting her arrows from the targets and getting ready to retire.

"He's not bothering anyone," Amelie says distractedly, tugging insistently at an arrow that won't loosen itself.

"Precisely," returns the other assassin.

"Ah Tabai seems to think him reliable," adds Aapo, lightly shoving Amelie aside and dislodging the arrow himself.

"And that should make him trustworthy?" returns Citlali as Aapo slips the arrow back into its quiver.

"What of you, Amelie?" says Aapo, "You are from London, yes? What do you know of Duncan Walpole?"

_Not a damn thing_ , she thinks, but what she says is, "I tend to keep to myself."

Citlali's stare is blank and her silence telling. Aapo is staring at something over Amelie's shoulder, looking serious and dark; Walpole is approaching them.

"Good evening," he greets to silence and suspicion. His eyes dart to the bow in Amelie's hands and, despite the mask he quickly fixes into place, she sees the curl of his lip and the incredulity.

"Something wrong?" she asks, tightening her grasp on the weapon.

"I was simply about to ask you the same," he says and when he draws his flintlock from his belt, Amelie's not the only one reaching for a weapon to counter.

But when he shoots the weapon is aimed towards the mannequins standing thirty feet away. The bullet hits the target squarely in the chest.

"I knew Ah Tabai's students were backwards," muses Duncan, "but I thought you, of all people, would understand the uselessness of such a primitive weapon in the age of gunpowder and cannons."

Citlali's inhale is a hiss through clenched teeth. Aapo grumbles under his breath and storms away.

Amelie follows, throwing over her shoulder, "Call me when you can shoot a wet gun."

* * *

There's a ship docked on the far side of the island, flying the black Aapo tells her, and Ah Tabai wishes the threat be dealt with accordingly – and _quickly_.

Amelie trips on a root underfoot and she catches herself before she can stumble to the floor, following swiftly behind Aapo and eased by the weight of the bow and quiver on her back. The bow she has chosen is the one she's used frequently when training, the wood chipped with marks from her hidden blade – one mark for every perfect shot. It's not her recurve bow but it does the job.

Aapo hushes her after they've walked another mile or so, waving her to the jungle floor as the first of the pirates comes into sight. He's a large man, his shirt stained yellow with sweat, and the man that follows is thin and tall, with a receding hairline. Others follow, slashing and hacking at the low hanging branches around them, and their conversation is jovial and light-hearted.

"They have stopped to resupply," Aapo says in a whisper. "We cannot allow them to find the village."

Aapo reaches slowly and quietly for the spear strapped across his back. The blade on the end is curved and wickedly sharp and Aapo handles it with respect and equal awe. Amelie swallows and edges slowly away from it.

"How do you know?" Amelie's eyes wander back to the four men, pressing through the jungle and shouting their frustration with words she doesn't understand.

Amelie reaches for her bow and nocks an arrow. "Who do we take out first?"

"We will not kill them," Aapo says, "not unless it becomes necessary." He reaches for his belt and draws a small dark orb, reaching for the flint to light the fuse; Amelie appreciates that smoke bombs seem to be the one consistency in weapons utilised by the assassins. "We will scare them from the island."

"Done this often have you?" she quips but his reply never reaches her ears.

They've been found.

There's someone directly behind her. She swallows nervously; if there's one thing Amelie will recognise regardless of the time she's in, it's the cold barrel of a gun against her head. The breath she releases is a single exhale, laced with frustration and anger – how did she let herself be snuck up on so easily? Has it really been that long since she's been in the field that she's forgotten the basics of stealth? How did Aapo not realise?

_Rookie mistake_ , Rebecca would be saying in her ear right now, if this was an ordinary mission. Amelie wouldn't be able to live this down for months if Rebecca and Shaun were here.

"On your feet," growls the pirate at her back and her hesitation earns her a nudge of the gun against her head, a reminder of the threat he carries.

There's another forcing Aapo to his feet at her side. The pistol bites at her temple as a hand wraps around her arm, dragging her upwards. She's shaken roughly until she's forced to drop her bow, forced to leave it on the ground and step out of the bush they'd been using as cover.

_Merde_ , she thinks glumly. _How could I have been so bloody stupid?_

Ah Tabai had trusted them with this, trusted them to find the threat and deal with it, and Amelie's no expert, but she's pretty sure what's happening is the _exact opposite_. Aapo's spear has been abandoned beside her bow; the only weapons they now have are their hidden blades.

The pirates eye her up and down, slowly, lecherously, and Amelie wishes now more than ever than she could adjust her robes – they're more like scraps of fabric, really, the outfits the Mayan assassins out here seem to wear. She's by no means comfortable, but the fabric is light and airy, dark like the mud at her feet and white like the feathers on the arrows in her quiver.

There's six pirates, Amelie sees now, and only 2 of them – 2 trained assassins who managed to get snuck up on by vagabonds and scoundrels. She tries to catch Aapo's eye but the Mayan is frowning at something over her shoulder, his eyes dark and curious, but with the two enemies at her side she can't follow his eyes and find out what's bothering him.

A shot is fired into the air; birds squawk and flee, disturbing the quiet overheard in their haste to fly away, and Aapo has moved quickly, his hidden blades drawn. He ducks, one blade striking a solider in the gut and the other arcing upwards, slicing the neck of the pirate on his right. Amelie follows suit, spinning in place and parrying a blade that hoped to catch her side. The blood is warm on her hand when her blade embeds in his neck and another shot rings out, accompanied by a pained yell from the pirate at her back.

Duncan Walpole emerges from the treeline when all is said and done, when the fight is over and the bodies lie at their feet.

"Well," he says, "I will accept your gratitude modestly."

Aapo grumbles under his breath and storms towards their hiding spot, grasping his spear in a grip that seems too tight to be useful to Amelie. He tosses her bow to her and places the arrow in the quiver on her back as he passes. He says nothing to Walpole as he passes him and Amelie watches the other assassin until he ducks through the trees and disappears.

"Rather quiet fellow, isn't he?" Walpole asks amusedly and Amelie rolls her eyes, making to leave as well. Walpole follows, hot at her heels. "Come now! What have I done to anger you so, good lady?"

She stops suddenly and turns, face to face with the Brit. Amelie stands stoically in front of him; she won't be cowed, no matter how much she might want to tug at the light fabric that shows too much skin. It's nothing like the jeans and shirt she had worn on arrival, nothing like the loose shirt and breeches Kidd had given her in the next couple of days.

"You haven't _done_ anything," she fires at Walpole. "Excuse me."

"Now," he calls, and he falls into step with her, "what kind of gentleman would I be if I let a lady walk back to the village alone?"

"You're right," Amelie says, " _oh_ , whatever shall I do? I'm but a poor, gentle lady with a soft soul. _Please_ , Mr Walpole, won't you do me the honour of escorting me?"

Her sarcasm isn't completely lost on him, this she's sure of, but instead of falling silent, he smirks charmingly and tells her, "Call me Duncan."

* * *

Kidd's ship is a week late and Darcy assures her that it happens all the time – the weather is not to be predicted in the West Indies and where a sky might be clear one second, the next dark clouds can roll in and bring a hurricane.

Without him, loneliness begins to creep in at her edges. He's become a constant companion for her on Tulum, the first friendly face she saw when she emerged from the water, and without him Amelie's not sure how she's going to cope.

She trains often with Citlali and Aapo and speaks more often to Darcy when the other woman helps her with her hair; she meets Blaine, another Brit who butchers his French when she mentions that she's fluent, and he introduces her to some others – so many that she forgets their names hours after introductions. None of them are Kidd, none of them are _Esme_ , none of them are Shaun or Rebecca or Desmond-

Amelie frequently finds herself alone, tucked away in her hut and listening to the songs and laughs from the assassins crowded around the bonfire in the late evening. She wants to go _home_ , wants to find her friend and _leave_ _now_ , but whenever she brings this up to Ah Tabai he insists she's safer here, safer in Tulum where the Templars cannot find her.

Rage boils beneath her skin at his words – she's become another pawn in the war, she reflects, another piece to be played at the Mentor's convenience.

_You are a soldier now_ , her mother used to tell her, when her health was dwindling and every third sentence ended with coughs that wracked her shoulders and exhausted her. _You have to fight_.

_I don't want to_ , she thinks, leaning against the dirty wall of her hut. _I want to go home_.

The laughter carries in the air with the crackling of flames and it does nothing but remind her of everything she's lost.

* * *

Duncan passes her hut four times – she can _see_ him through the sheer fabric that hangs over the doorway - she's taken to affectionately calling them _door-flaps_ because of their similarities to tent flaps and the fact it's actually her _door_ – before he steps inside. Amelie is quick to remove Esme's journal from his sight, slipping the small, leather-bound book into her bag and fixing Walpole – _call me Duncan_ , she thinks mockingly – with an indifferent stare.

"Yes?"

His words sound rehearsed. "I merely wished to inquire after your health, miss." He pauses and adds, in a voice laced with sincerity while still maintaining the haughty and plummy tone, "You haven't emerged from your hut all day."

_With good reason_ , she thinks, but what she says is (and quite insincerely too, she likes to think), "Thank you for your concern."

He nods once, curtly, and there's a tenderness to him that Amelie hasn't seen since his arrival months ago. He steps back and gestures sweepingly with his hand, holding the flaps nearest him open.

"Won't you join me, Miss Crawley?" He clears his throat. "Some fresh air might do you some good, I think."

She gets to her feet reluctantly, sensing a stubbornness about his demeanour and appearance in her space, thinking hard on the way he had strolled back and forth in front of her hut. Apparently he cares about her where the others don't, she hates to think (it's somehow more painful when she thinks of Aapo and Citlali, the two she's trained with most not bothering to see her the past few days), and he seems to genuinely want her to feel better.

_Maybe I can give him a chance_ , she thinks with a self-suffering sigh, passing him at the doorway and passing on a gentle thanks.

If she starts to enjoy his company when they walk, who's there to care?

* * *

Duncan is telling her about London when Kidd arrives back in Tulum, three weeks late and seeming tired and annoyed, and it takes Amelie a few minutes before she realises he's there at all. Even then the most she does is wave distractedly, listening intently even still to Duncan's story about the Brotherhood there, about his brother and all they're doing in Britain.

He presses her gently about where she's from, about her parents and her Brotherhood, about her travels, and Amelie remembers something Esme told her long ago, something her friend had read in one of her many books that she loved; _stick to the truth as near as possible_.

She tells him that she's French-British and an orphan only of recent, that she's hoping to leave Tulum soon in search of a friend (she smartly says nothing else about Esme), and that she met Kidd recently and that he's the reason she's here. To _train_ , she says after a pause and a thought that it would be wise to plant that seed in Walpole – _Duncan_ , she thinks, with a hint of amusement and no mockery.

He admits to her that he's heard of the Crawley's but never of _her_ and somehow she manages to remain calm when she lies, "I've been staying in Paris the last couple of years."

"Do you have family there?"

She nods. "My aunt," she tells him. He doesn't need to know that her aunt hasn't actually been born yet.

"You appear well travelled," Duncan says and she can hear the hinted question there.

She shrugs. " _Ma mère..._ she, um, she never like to be tied down." She pauses. "I followed where she led."

"She must be a remarkable woman," he says softly.

"She was."

Kidd arrives at that moment, lingering by the bonfire and watching them curiously if somewhat dubiously, but when Amelie gets to her feet to greet him he approaches nonetheless. He clasps her arm when she reaches for him and Amelie studies his face; a bruise on his jaw, green and yellow and fading, and a new scar, small and slight and still pink, on his neck.

"Don't let me interrupt, please," he drawls and Amelie can't remember his voice sounding so musical, so light. Kidd adjusts the red bandana he's wearing as Amelie bids Duncan goodnight. When Duncan disappears into his hut, Kidd adds, "You two seemed awfully cosy."

Amelie's lips quirk. "Jealous, Kidd?"

"Please," scoffs her friend. "What's there to be jealous of?" He smirks strangely, and huffs a laugh like he's telling a joke. "I've bigger balls than that lout."

Amelie chuckles lightly and falls into step with Kidd as he starts to walk away from the bonfire and towards the beach.

"C'mon," he says, "I've somethin' t' show you."

* * *

It's not a _show_ so much as a _give_ ; a coat not unlike Walpole's, white and pale green, with a hood that's too big but that she thinks will do the job well enough. He hands over new breeches and shirts, leather boots unlike anything Amelie's ever worn in her life, and a red sash for her waist and a new bow and quiver, full of arrows with white feathers.

"I know a man in Nassau," Kidd says, "owed me a favour."

Amelie's fingers brush along the rough fabric, along the white that will surely fade and dirty in time; it will never look this way again, this new.

She smiles sadly. "You'll have to take me to meet him sometime," she says. "I could thank him personally."

Part of wonders if it will ever happen. Ah Tabai worries about the impact she will have on the world, about what would happen should she wind up in the wrong hands. The Templars would love to have the information she does, she knows, the knowledge of the future – though limited as it is. Esme was always the history geek. Esme would know _all_ about what's happening in this time, all about Ah Tabai and the Brotherhood here, about the years that will follow 1714. It's almost November, Amelie agonises, and she's no closer to leaving this stupid island.

"Maybe I will," Kidd drawls. He pauses and turns his mischievous and secret-ridden dark eyes to her. "You'd need some time on a ship first. Can't have ye fallin' on your face every time you step onto the deck."

That _would_ be embarrassing, Amelie concedes with a grimace and a huff. She remembers clearly the feeling of the floor moving, the constant swaying of the vessel on the waves. It's possible, she knows, for people to get used to the feeling, but will _she_ ever?

"C'mon," Kidd says, gesturing with his hand to the coat in her lap. "Try it on then."

It feels heavy on her body but no less comfortable and Kidd looks pleased. The sleeves are only just too long, reaching past her fingertips while Kidd comments that she'll need the sash to prevent the coat from seeming so _large_.

"I had t' guess your measurements," confides the pirate. "Thought ye seemed about my size so went a little larger on account of your..." He holds his hands in front of his chest, mimicking her breasts.

"Yes, well," she says, "sorry my being a woman was such an inconvenience to your remarkable skill to measure people on sight."

"Wasn't an inconvenience," Kidd says with an insufferable smirk, "more like a distraction."

She's glad to have him back, even if it's only for a couple of months.

* * *

Kidd starts to teach her how to sail in the weeks she sees him, leading her around the deck of the ship and teaching her the different parts; the bowsprit and the bow, to the mainmast and the foremast, to the poop deck and the stern of the ship. She starts to become familiar with the feeling of walking on the water, to the constant swaying and the bobbing of the ship under her feet. Amelie starts to long for the open sea, to leave Tulum with Kidd and sail for Nassau with him – the Pirate Republic, he calls it, where men and women live free as they were meant to.

Her palms, already scarred from her life, become calloused and rough from the ropes around her, from the scrubbing on the deck, and Kidd tells her they'll make a sailor of her yet. The crew start to warm to her presence – more so when she joins them when they set sail for a couple of days, all of them suffering cabin fever and hating being stuck on dry land as much as Amelie does.

The longest she leaves Tulum with them is a week and it's never long enough.

The rum is sweet and the conversation sweeter and she hates the days she has to stay on the island and watch them sail away without her.

* * *

Blaine insists she learn to wield a cutlass – he seems thoroughly appalled when she tells him she'd rather attack from afar with her bow (she tells him her hidden blade is for close combat and he all but _faints_ ) – and before she knows it every Brit on the island has crowded around the two of them and is throwing out tips.

"Move your feet," shouts one while another says, "Plant your feet!"

"Lunge," says one as "Parry!" says another.

The cutlass itself is strange; a short blade with a slight curve, dulled for the purpose of this training but no less dangerous, with a hilt of silver that rises and twists over her hand. It feels strangely heavy and she finds it awkward to wield; how anyone in this time could win a fight, she doesn't know.

She lies on her back on the ground, panting and sweating and fanning herself with her shirt while above her Blaine crows in (another) victory.

"I give up," she proclaims tiredly, dropping the cutlass at her side, "seriously. No more."

"Come now Amelie," says Blaine, and he holds out his hand to help her to her feet. "What do you expect to do if you're beset upon by pirates and you cannot defend yourself? Yield to them?"

"No," she deadpans, "that's what my hidden blade is for."

"The hidden blade is not an offensive weapon, Amelie," says Robert, approaching them slowly.

"I don't know," she says, "it's pretty freaking deadly to me."

"The blade is thin," Robert continues, "too many blows and it will snap in half."

" _Pfft_. It hasn't happened yet though."

"It _has_ happened and will –"

"Not to _me_ , it hasn't."

With an aggravated huff and a dismissive wave of his hand, Robert storms off and Blaine grabs the cutlass from her hand. He mutters under his breath, "That is all for today, I think," and follows after the other assassin.

Amelie just really wants a hot shower.

* * *

Kidd has left a couple of bottles of rum with her and she's hidden them away in her hut, there for some light drinking when she reads through Esme's journal in the evenings. She doesn't know what she expects when she opens the leather bound book – a piece of information she's missed? A new letter tucked between the pages – because she must know it by heart and back to back by now with all the times she's read it.

The drink makes her sloppy though and Duncan often eyes the journal with interest on the nights he's joined her in her hut to chat.

She's alone again, the rum her only companion and only link to her friend who's set sail once more for the Pirate Republic, and the journal in her lap the only clues to the one who's lost somewhere.

"It seems to hold some significance to you," Duncan muses aloud one night.

"It does," Amelie says softly, and the rum has loosened her lips a little when she adds, "It belongs to a friend of mine."

"The same friend you hope to leave here to find?"

"The very same."

He watches her keenly as she slips the journal back into her bag, brows lifted in interest as it disappears from sight and Amelie takes another long swig of rum. She feels like this is all familiar, this scenario, drinking away her problems, but she can't think where it's happened before.

She passes out shortly after she finishes off the bottle, with Walpole still in her hut and his eyes trailing every so often to her bag.

* * *

Kidd returns from Nassau with a cutlass for her and joins Blaine and Robert in insisting she learn to wield it. He teaches her on the deck of the ship, when the sun shines bright and high over them and Amelie's skin turns bright pink in the heat.

She's already seeing the effects of being in the Caribbean; her skin was once pale – _milk bottle legs_ , Rebecca used to taunt at her – and now it's tanning a shade Amelie knows many women would be jealous of in 2013.

_What's your secret, Amelie? How have you achieved such a perfect tan_?

_Well you know, it's quite simple. Discover an ancient temple and nearly drown and spend almost a year in the Caribbean in the 18th century. Ten out of ten would recommend!_

"I hope you're not expecting me to pay you back for all these gifts," she quips as Kidd lunges towards her, the metal of his sword glinting the light. "Because you'll be disappointed."

"You really don't know the meaning of gifts, do ye?" Kidd returns, and their blades meet with clangs as they parry and parry and lunge and strike. "I'm not askin' ye t' give me anythin' in return."

"That's good," Amelie pants, stepping aside and nearly lifting her cutlass too late. Their blades connect and scrape together in their power struggle until Amelie's nearly bent over backwards trying to keep herself alive.

"You'd be dead if I was anyone else y'know," says Kidd, standing straight and sauntering away. "Still think ye don't need t' know how t' wield a cutlass?"

"You've made your point," Amelie says, leaning heavily against the side of the ship and trying to catch her breath. Kidd sheathes his cutlass and reaches into a crate by the stairs to the poop deck, lifting free two bottles of rum and returning to her side to hand her one.

"It's funny," Amelie says, "I always thought pirates love for rum was totally over exaggerated." Amelie thinks of Captain Jack Sparrow and the TV shows and games she's seen, the fascination with rum that she always thought couldn't possibly be that important.

Kidd laughs. "Aye, I've known men who would plunder ten dozen ships if it would see them find even one casket o' rum."

"Really," she muses. "It's that important to them?"

"Like wine t' kings."

Ominous grey clouds are starting to roll in, casting them in shade where the sun had once beat down hotly on them. Kidd frowns and they're descending the ship towards the row boat as the rain starts to pour, a downfall that soaks them both before they can even reach the shelter of the trees.

Kidd tells her over the thunder that he sets sail again in a week's time and the Mentor's agreed that when next he returns, Amelie will leave the island with him.

Amelie sees Duncan watching from the doorway of his hut as she runs to her own, gleeful and cheery and feeling an inch of a step closer to finding Esme.

* * *

She has a bag prepared for her departure, as keen as she is to set sail and start her search, and every day without sign of Kidd's ship does nothing but prick at her determination. Perhaps Kidd lied to make her feel better. Perhaps he's won't return for another 3 months, perhaps 6; what would she do then? That would make it nearly a year and a half since her arrival in 1714 – no, now it's 1715 Darcy had corrected her that morning.

"It's almost May," she'd said with a laugh. "Oh, wow, where has your head been darling?"

On the deck of a ship, she wants to say, or in the training yard with Blaine and Robert and Aapo and Citlali, but instead she'd said, "Oh. My birthday was months ago."

She's turned twenty and hadn't even realised it.

_But does it count_ , she had wondered, _if I haven't been born yet?_

She cradles a bottle of rum in her hand and watches the fire dance on the logs in front of her. It's a small bonfire, with not so many of them lingering around it; Aapo has retired early after seeing off a friend of his, Opia, and Ah Tabai and Duncan have been holed up in the Mentor's hut for hours, discussing something clearly important. Amelie's left with Darcy and Robert – both making eyes at each other over the head of the fire – and Blaine, who seems content to chew her ear off about sword techniques despite the fact she's not listening.

Loneliness is creeping in again without Kidd. Citlali's making herself scarce, still suspicious of Duncan and snapping at anyone who tries to defend him and with no one else but Blaine, still speaking at her and expecting no reply, Amelie keeps drinking.

Duncan appears later in the evening, plopping himself onto the log at her other side but refusing the offer of a drink when she tries to hand him the bottle.

"I prefer wine," he says, and Amelie thinks she must be drunk because he sounds haughty and disgusted. "A gentleman's drink."

"What does that make rum then?" she asks, her words slurring slightly.

"The drink of pirates and scoundrels," he tells her without missing a beat.

She smiles crookedly. "Are you saying I'm a scoundrel, Mr Walpole?"

"Perhaps."

She huffs a laugh but part of her drunken mind flares in indignation. Just because she enjoys rum doesn't mean she's a _scoundrel_ – if there was wine on this bloody island, maybe she would be drinking _that_ instead.

She's half-drunk when Duncan starts to ask her questions she wouldn't answer sober and they're alone by the fire, accompanied by nothing but the snapping of logs in the pit and the crackling of the fire. The stars shine bright overhead, twinkling beautifully when she casts her face upwards, and she has the thought that she'd never get a view like this back home, not anywhere.

"You are a strange woman," Duncan comments, and his hand trails along her arm, ghosting over the flesh and drawing goose bumps in its wake.

"You have _no_ idea," she slurs in reply, her eyelids hooded with lust.

"Strange women have secrets," he says lowly. "I would like to know yours."

And Amelie says stupidly, "Ask away."

"Tell me your story."

"That's not a question."

He sighs – aggravated sounding and she thinks it strange somewhere in the back of her mind, a sober thought quickly suppressed by rum. Amelie drinks and drinks and words come spilling out of her mouth. He listens sombrely but eagerly, his eyes alight with something sinister and excited, and he doesn't speak until she's done. She downs the last of her rum, thinking she's found another friend to confide in and wondering when would be the best time to tell the Mentor that she wants to take Duncan with her when she leaves with Kidd.

"That is quite the tale," Duncan says. "A Temple of Eden? It sounds impossible. A thing from a story."

"It does, doesn't it?" Amelie hums, setting the empty bottle on the grass by her feet. "Esme was so _sure_ she was on to something. I just have to find her and tell her she was right."

"Esme," he says, his voice lilting with a question. "The friend you hope to find?"

"Mm-hm."

"How did she find out about the Temple?"

"She reads. _A lot_."

He asks more and more; about the future, about the assassins, about the Templars, about _Esme_. Before Amelie knows it, she's rising to her feet and telling him she needs to get some sleep, exhausted from a long day and from a night of spilling her secrets.

* * *

Amelie always thought that telling a person about yourself was supposed to be liberating; an expression of trust between two people.

She doesn't feel liberated.

She feels like she's made a _big_ mistake.

Her head pounds from the drink – _no more_ , she tells herself, _I'm not a bloody pirate, I have no fascination with the freaking stuff_ – and when she finds the man she's seeking he's standing by the pigeon coop, head turned to the sky as he watches a bird take flight.

Unease pools in her stomach when he turns and see her there, grinning slyly at her in a way that makes her skin crawl. It reminds her of the first time she met him, the way he'd approached in that haughty manner and set her teeth on edge. She's wary of him again now, wary of him because of the power he now holds over her – power she gave him willingly.

" _You can trust me_ ," she remembers him telling her the night before, but the words are fuzzy in her memory, said through her stuffed ears as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of rum.

She watches him leave, watches him greet Ah Tabai with a friendly smile and a pat on the back. She's lonely again, wishing Kidd was here, wishing there was someone she could confide about this in, confess about this to – because she's made a mistake, she's sure of it, and she needs someone to assure her that she hasn't.

* * *

He ducks into her hut late one night a week later, flighty and smirking, and when she opens her mouth to ask him what he's up to he strides towards her and steals her words with a hungry kiss.

"Duncan," she whispers, and she pushes at him insistently until he rises somewhat, staring down at her expectantly. "What are you-"

"How long has it been?" he asks in a low voice, dipping his head to press kisses to her jaw. He bites her lip. "Surely you have thought of this too?"

She hasn't – not at all. Not with _him_ at least. But Kidd isn't here and her loneliness is outweighing everything else right now; she wants comfort and it doesn't matter who it comes from, even if it comes from the man she thinks is the source of her mistake.

She gives in too easily, in spite of her doubts and unease, grasping his shoulders and tugging him closer and uncaring that her actions scream her desperation. She's lonely and alone, lost in this time but stranded on this island and Duncan is giving her attention where she's finding none.

His hands are scarred like hers, marred from training and from the life they lead, but they're smooth where Amelie's are calloused. Duncan hasn't worked the sails on a ship or worked at all, she imagines, but his inexperience in sailing in more than made up with his experience of the female body.

They're sweaty and half-naked, panting and gyrating against each other, and for all that Amelie's lonely, there's something about this tryst that doesn't feel right to her. Their kisses are sloppy and their teeth catch and click together; when he enters her, it's with a single thrust and his forehead on her shoulder.

They stay like that for only a few seconds, Amelie adjusting to his girth and noticing that for all she's doing to help him he's not returning the favour, and then he sets a quick and desperate pace. Amelie can hear nothing but their flesh slapping together and their gasping breaths and when she moans it's half in pain and half in pleasure.

When he finishes, it's with a drawn out groan and Amelie's in no way satisfied when he collapses on top of her, pulling himself free as his warm breaths fan across her shoulder and neck. Her breaths are laboured but quiet and any words that she might say will not come.

It's a few seconds before he speaks and when he does it's only a whisper of "Thank you," in her ear before he draws himself to his feet. Amelie realises that their haste had seen him only unlace his breeches, had only seen her drag hers down to her knees, and Duncan adjusts his clothing quickly but calmly. There's still a flush to her cheeks and lust in her gaze but he won't look at her.

He doesn't until he's at the door-flaps of her hut and it's only then that Amelie sees the lechery in his eyes, the cruel smirk twisting his lips upwards.

He says it again; "Thank you," and then he disappears into the night.

He leaves Tulum the next morning.

His treachery is discovered too late.


	4. The Walpole Pretender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Edward Kenway.

 

> _If you wanna start a fight, you better throw the first punch. Make it a good one._

* * *

She can't find Esme's journal.

Amelie tears apart her hut searching for the leather bound book, empties the contents of her bag onto her small cot, but it's not there- it's not _anywhere_. She starts to suspect as the morning goes on, starts to worry and rage, and when she finally emerges from her hut it's to a bright, late afternoon sun glowing in the sky and chaos all around her.

There's a crowd gathered around Ah Tabai and angry voices carry towards her, drawing her near. Every step pounds certainty into her; something is _wrong_.

"He's _gone_ ," whispers someone as she draws closer.

"Aye," snaps another, "the Mentor sent him off."

" _No_ ," insists the first. "He's _gone_. Taken the maps from the Mentor and all – right under his nose."

"A traitor, y'mean?"

"I told you I did not trust him," Citlali says from over her shoulder. Her hair is braided in two plaits, each over her shoulders and making her appear younger but stricter. Her bright and dark eyes search Amelie's face knowingly. "I would believe you learned of his betrayal the hard way."

Amelie swallows. She can still feel Duncan's – _no_ , _Walpole_ , he's _Walpole_ now, a traitor who's played them all for fools – hands on her skin, can still feel his breath at her ear.

 _Thank you_ , he'd whispered, and she sees now what the words mean – he's gone, Esme's journal with him, and Amelie has been so bloody _stupid_.

A scream is building in her throat, a rage and fury that her mother used to tell her is legendary in their family, and Citlali's calm expression and demeanour is suddenly offensive to her.

She hisses, more to herself than anyone else, but still loud enough to draw attention from the crowds, " _Ce bâtard_!" and storms off before they can see her frustrated tears.

* * *

Ah Tabai finds her swinging her cutlass angrily at a tree, dulling the blade more and more with every hit and sending chips of bark scattering to the ground at her feet. She grunts with every hit, feeling dirty and disgusting, feeling Walpole's hands on her skin even still, feeling him inside her. She wants to vomit; she can hardly bear to think about it. Such a mistake she had made, a mistake with dire consequences for everyone – for the _future_.

"He took a journal from me," Amelie admits breathlessly, her arms hanging limp at her side, her cutlass dangling from her hand. She rests her head against the scarred bark of the tree; she cannot look at him, cannot bear to see the disappointment that will no doubt cloud his face. "It was Esme's. Everything she knew about the Temples of Eden is in it – along with her notes." She swallows. "There's information in there about the future, Mentor."

Ah Tabai listens aptly and quietly but Amelie feels every bit like she's just admitted to some petty crime, some small mistake that resulted in a catastrophic mess. Her fingers find the black cord at her neck, the pearl resting between her breasts; _Esme_ , she thinks, _merde, I'm so sorry_.

Esme would have advised _trust_ in the assassins, trust in the Brotherhood in spite of her worries – and maybe if Amelie had, things would be different. Walpole would never had absconded with the journal. Amelie would never have unknowingly helped the Templars to get a leg up in the war.

"Grand Master Torres is in Havana as we speak," Ah Tabai says sternly. "We have reason to believe that is where Duncan Walpole will be going." He pauses and looks Amelie up and down as she turns to face him, cheeks stained with tears and red curls springing free of their braids. "I have arranged for a small group to pursue."

 _I'm going with them_ , she thinks, over and over until she growls it aloud, scowling at Ah Tabai.

"I cannot allow –"

"I'm not asking for your permission, _Mentor_ ," she says. "He _used_ me and _stole_ from me. This is personal."

He looks like he wants to argue some more; Amelie wonders if he thinks the risk is too high. Already the Templars may now have Esme's journal, her letters and notes – does he worry that if Amelie joins the hunt for Walpole that the assassins may lose her as well?

 _I'll die before I let that happen_ , she thinks with conviction.

Ah Tabai seems to see something in her expression. He says, "Have that blade sharpened before you leave," and turns to go.

* * *

No one seems surprised when Amelie boards the ship and she wonders just how many people are aware of what transpired between herself and Walpole.

"Thin walls," says Hana two days into the journey, an assassin with dark hair and skin like Aapo's. "We live in the middle of a jungle, friend. What did you expect?"

Amelie decides she likes Hana. She reminds her of Rebecca, quick and witty and friendly, but with a danger that lurks beneath her kind appearance. She's Mayan like Aapo, and like the majority of the Brotherhood on Tulum – and spread throughout the West Indies, Hana tells her – but the ship they're on is sailed by pirates, by their assassin Captain.

The ship is called the _Gipsy_ , a schooner that's small and fast, and she's captained by Assassin Newton Seagrave, a tall man with hair a lighter shade than Amelie's and a frown almost permanently on his face. He doesn't steer the ship but stands to the right of his helmsman, his eyes ever watchful and almost always on the horizon.

"Captain Seagrave brought Walpole to Tulum," another of their group tells Amelie below deck, when they're preparing to rest. Amelie can't get comfortable on the hammock; it sways constantly with the motion of the ship and for all her sneering and distaste of the space, she misses her hut. "He blames himself, I think."

Another scoffs, a young man with dark blonde hair and a scar along the right side of his face. "Newt doesn't blame himself," he says, in a voice strong with an accent Amelie's not sure of. "He's angry that we didn't realise sooner."

"Citlali did," Amelie ponders aloud. "She didn't trust him from the get-go."

Hana hums thoughtfully. "She is good at that," she says. "We should all listen to Citlali more often."

"She makes it difficult," says the large man in the hammock opposite Amelie. His voice is a low timbre that matches his massive build. "She is abrasive and cold. She has nothing good to say about anyone."

Amelie frowns at the wood above her head, thinking hard; if Citlali has nothing good to say about anyone, what has she said about her? That she's naïve? Stupid? Amelie thinks she would probably agree with every bad thing Citlali could come up with at this stage.

"Perhaps we could all take lessons from Citlali," says the other man in his thick and strange accent.

"Perhaps we _should_ ," pipes up a new voice.

Captain Seagrave stands in the doorway, his coat and weapons set aside and shadows dancing across his face. Amelie sees the beginnings of tattoos along his collarbone where his shirt hangs open but her lesson has been learned; Amelie has no interest in ridiculing herself again quite so soon.

"But Walpole is not our main concern," continues the captain, speaking in a voice that reminds her _too_ much of Walpole. Every word is carefully enunciated, every syllable rolling off his tongue too easily, and Amelie's glad he's on their side. Newton Seagrave is as charming as Duncan Walpole and she wouldn't be surprised if he was as slippery and sly too.

The large man sits up in his hammock, with some difficulty, and demands, "What news?"

"The Mentor told me himself," Seagrave says. "A Sage has been found."

Hana's gasp is small and breathy. "The Observatory," she says and Seagrave nods curtly.

"If you have the chance to kill Walpole, take it," he orders coldly, "but if that chance comes at the loss of the Sage, then do not risk his life."

And Amelie sees red.

" _What_?" she snaps furiously. Somehow, she manages to storm to her feet, despite the swaying of her hammock and the ship rocking from side to side. "No way. Nu-uh. If I get the chance to kill Duncan Walpole, I'm going to bloody take it!"

"Amelie," Hana says quietly, sympathetically, while Seagrave stares her down with eyes like moss.

"These are our orders," he says stonily.

" _Your_ orders," she returns hotly. "Not mine. I don't even care about this stupid _Sage_ -"

"You _should_ ," says the large man, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, "a reappearance of the Sage means the race for the Observatory has begun once more."

Frustrated, Amelie echoes, "The Observatory?"

The other man, with his strange accent and scar, mutters, " _Cristo_ _,_ do they teach you nothing in London?"

"Ah Tabai wanted Walpole to bring the Sage back to Tulum," says Seagrave irately, glowering still at Amelie and her confusion. "Apparently Walpole had other plans."

"That doesn't explain anything," Amelie says, lip curled as Seagrave continues to scowl and look down his nose at her.

"No one really knows what the Observatory is," Hana says softly, reaching for Amelie's arm and drawing her to sit once more. "We only know that it is the duty of the Assassins to protect it."

"Well," says the other, and Amelie starts to think he's Spanish, "Ah Tabai believes that to be so."

"You disagree?" Amelie asks.

The Spaniard shrugs. "I do not think it exists, _cariña_ _."_ He pauses to reach into his pocket for a pipe, the wood long and dark. "Surely we would have found it by now?"

"Only a Sage can find it, Darío," says the large man in the back. "The last died a generation ago."

"Convenient," quips Darío, with a flighty smirk.

"The Sage must be protected," Captain Seagrave cuts in coldly. The stares he gives Amelie is as frosty as his words. "Regardless of personal vendettas."

 _It's more than a personal vendetta_ , Amelie wants to tell him, but the only other thing she can think she might say is _the future is at stake_ and aside from Ah Tabai and Kidd – and Duncan Walpole now – no one else knows about the circumstances of her arrival. Darío and all the rest still think she's from _London_ – not far from the truth considering her father was from London – and anything she can say to correct them would only make things more complicated.

Amelie scowls at the Captain. "If I get a shot at Walpole," she repeats, "I am _taking it_."

* * *

She misses flying.

The Gipsy left Tulum three weeks ago and Captain Seagrave has informed her – quite annoyed with her questions and still no closer to convincing her that her ' _vendetta_ ' against Walpole is childish and ridiculous - they've still two weeks of sailing with the wind.

"It's not just your regular vendetta, Captain," she tells him, frustrated after hours of his needling.

He leans against the bannister near the helm, elbows on the wood and peering curiously down at her where she stands on the deck. "Oh?" He asks. "Then what, pray tell, is this vendetta if it is irregular?"

 _Personal_ , she nearly says, but she remembers Seagrave's jibe at her the weeks before, on the first night of sailing – _the Sage must be protected, regardless of personal vendettas_ – and bites her tongue.

"It's private," she says instead, thrown over her shoulder as she turns her eyes towards the horizon. It still astounds her, the views she gets of this time, unimpeded as it usually is by pylons and skyscrapers and aeroplanes.

She hears his boots against the wood as he descends the stairs towards her, hears the soft sigh that leaves his lips as he joins her.

"I apologise," he says primly, as if the very words themselves offend him to say.

Amelie's hair is loose today, blown in her eyes and around her shoulders by the wind, catching in the buttons of her shirt. She runs her hand through it as she brushes it aside, fingers snagging in the tangles and knots.

"For what?" she asks slowly and unsurely, taking a step back to watch him cautiously.

"I believe you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot," he murmurs. He unties a length of green fabric secured on the hilt of cutlass – the blade is thinner than Amelie's and the hilt longer and golden – and passes it to her. "For your hair," he explains, seemingly amused by the way she fights with the tangles and length. "I think green suits you far better than I."

She nods once and wraps the fabric once around her wrist, knowing a losing battle when she sees one; the wind is too hard and fast for her to try and tame her mess of curls on deck.

"Thanks," she tells him sincerely, and if the Captain is flirting with her, she has no wish to return it. She's done that already and look where it's gotten her; on the deck of a ship sailing to Havana with murder on her mind and her bow on her back.

She leans idly against the side of the ship, eyes wandering to the main mast and the black flag there. "So," she starts casually, "a pirate."

Newton Seagrave grins roguishly, the first real sign Amelie's seen of wickedness in the man. "Aye," he says, but the word is wrong in his lips. He says afterwards, while Amelie grins and tries to hide her laugh, "Yes. I'm afraid the vulgar language does not come easily to me. I'm too much of a gentleman."

"What made you become a pirate at all? Why not a merchant or..." she searches for the word; she can't quite recall what other uses there were for sailors in this time.

"Privateer?" Seagrave finishes and she nods – Esme would have known that, she thinks glumly. "There's no work for privateers in the West Indies anymore. The war is over."

"Right," she says. "The war..." She's not sure which one he's referring to _at all_.

"In the end, I decided it was within my best interest to become a pirate." Captain Seagrave fiddles with the leather braces on his arms and traces the Brotherhood's symbol on the leather. "I can better help the Brotherhood that way. I've more use to Ah Tabai as a pirate."

Amelie wonders if that's Kidd's reason as well; to be feared as a pirate in the West Indies, she reckons, would probably give you more freedom to pursue the targets you need to, with no government to answer to.

 _It must be quite the life_ , she thinks, _sailing the open sea and answering to no one_. Maybe a life she could want, some day, when her own war in the future is over and the Templars have been beaten.

The helmsman calls Seagrave away and Amelie retires below deck, seeking out Hana and wondering if they might go over their plans again.

* * *

She learned the names of their small group properly a week after they departed Tulum – Hana, quiet and unofficially in charge when Seagrave is captaining the Gipsy; Val, large and frowning, with a rumble of a voice and nothing to say if it's not important; Darío, cryptic and flirty and Spanish, there because Havana is a Spanish settlement and he knows the island better than them all; and Pace, a small man native to Tulum, who she hadn't noticed the first night because he moves in the shadows like he's one of them.

"We will meet with Rhona immediately when we arrive," Hana says again, gesturing to a map laid out on top of a barrel. The map has been ripped in two and the pieces lie side by side in a weak imitation of a repair.

"Ah, Rhona," sighs Darío, with a wistful smile and a bottle of rum in his hands. Seagrave doesn't know he has it – "The _Capitán_ wants to sell it," the Spaniard has whispered in her ear as he tried to convince her to take a bottle. She adamantly refused and he added, "Seems such a waste to me." – and Amelie wouldn't be surprised if Darío has a number of them hidden on the ship somewhere.

"She will provide us with aid," Hana continues, dutifully ignoring Darío's comment.

"What about Captain Seagrave?" Amelie asks, leaning forward to peer curiously at the map. "Won't he be helping us?"

"No," Hana says, at the same time Darío quips, "Why, _cariña_? Will you miss him terribly?"

Amelie rolls her eyes while Hana explains, "Captain Seagrave and his crew are pirates. Havana does not take kindly to the likes of them."

Amelie nods slowly; it hadn't even occurred to her to worry about the reputation of pirates. She had completely forgotten that most wanted to see them hanged, caught up as she is in the idea of the _Golden Age of Piracy_ that she remembers learning about so, so long ago. She only remembers the idealised parts some of the other kids used to fantasise of on the Farm, the games they used to play where they pretended to be assassin pirates – the thought brings a pensive smile to her lips; they had _no idea_.

"And what of this Rhona?" Amelie asks, returning to seriousness. "Who is she?"

"She runs the Assassin Bureau in Havana," Darío says and Amelie nods. "We can depend on her."

" _Darío_ knows that better than us all," Hana says with a wink.

" _Sí_ ," Darío sighs, "I do."

* * *

The black flag has been replaced with a British one and hidden away in Seagrave's quarters, far from the eyes of the Spanish soldiers that wander the length of the docks.

Amelie has her hood drawn, eyes sheltered from the bright and blistering sun overhead, and if she thought Tulum was _hot_ , it is _nothing_ compared to Havana. Tulum had a jungle with plenty of shade available. Havana has palm trees and weather-beaten white stone buildings with red plated roofs, and fortresses that watch the sea carefully.

The green fabric Seagrave gave her is knotted in her hair, integrated with the messy braid Amelie was able to force her hair into without Darcy's help. It's the first time she's properly worn the jacket Kidd gave her, the first time she has felt the part of an 18th century assassin since her arrival, and Seagrave and Kidd seem to be right; green _is_ her colour.

Her companions wear white and brown and red, robes so different from those of the assassins on Tulum while still similar but none of them have drawn their hoods yet, not like Darío advised Amelie to do as soon as her feet touched the dusty ground of Havana.

"No doubt Walpole will have described you to the Templars, _cariña_ ," he said. "Better safe than sorry, yes?"

Rhona Dinsmore greets them with a smile that's in no way forced – only tired. There's a braid in her dark hair and colourful beads that hit off her cheek as she looks around her warily. Soldiers in golden yellow coats wander past them, throwing them curious and suspicious glances and muttering to each other in Spanish.

"Best not to linger here," Rhona tells them in a broad Scottish accent, and she says nothing else until the door of the Bureau closes securely behind them. Amelie lowers her hood and graciously shakes the woman's hand. "You must be Amelie."

Amelie nods once. "Pleased to meet you," she replies courteously and Rhona returns her nod.

"Down to business, aye?"

Around them, men and women lounge on chaises and lean against walls, stand near windows and adjust weapons. They all wear white, trimmed with brown, and Amelie catches them staring at her, at her coat and hair. She wears green and her hair shines like fire under the sunlight; she fights the urge to draw her hood and cower from them.

"The Sage is expected tomorrow morning," Rhona tells them. "Torres himself will be at the docks to greet his men."

"And Walpole?" Amelie cuts in eagerly; she could care less about _Torres_ or anyone else. She wants _Walpole_ , wants his head for what he's done, what she let him _do_.

"I imagine his presence will have been requested," says the assassin seriously.

"Remember our mission, Amelie," Hana starts quietly, but Amelie turns away.

" _Your_ mission," she says, voice harder than she means. She says to Rhona, "Is there somewhere we can rest?"

"I've had some cots set up upstairs. You'll need it."

Rhona has more to say but Amelie doesn't listen to it. She finds the stairs and ascends them one at a time, ignoring the eyes on her back and the disappointment in the eyes of her travelling companions.

* * *

 

Her hair is pinned back from her face but loose around her shoulders and arms, and she regrets the choice almost immediately. It's not yet noon and it's already _too_ hot and with her hood drawn and her coat on, she feels like she's in an oven. She's silent and serious, largely ignoring her companions save to say words of importance, and her bow feels light in her hand – light and _wrong_.

Her thumb brushes the white feather atop the arrow, disturbing the small bristles and finding calm in the action. Hana crouches at her side, overlooking the courtyard and the merchants and civilians that linger there. The Templars haven't arrived yet but information passes quick through the assassins that hide in plain sight; they wear white and lean against walls and loiter beside stalls, across rooftops from her and around corners.

They are many but so are the Templars.

"Everything has changed so quickly," Hana mutters beside her. "Just last month the Templars would never dare..."

"That was last month," returns an assassin on Hana's other side, a stranger introduced to her companions last night when plans were put in place. "This is now."

"There," Amelie says, nocking an arrow and her fingers on the bowstring. The assassin on Hana's other side reaches for his musket and starts to aim.

Amelie seeks him out, Walpole, finding instantly the blue and white coat and the hidden blades and the ostentatious gold brooch on his waist – but finding no other similarities. She doesn't remember Walpole walking with such a swagger or carrying two cutlasses, doesn't remember the bastard seeming so damned confident or _ever_ walking with his hood drawn.

There's something _wrong_ with all of it.

She pulls back the string of her bow, taking aim.

"Amelie –"

She lets her arrow fly.

Chaos follows.

The assassins lunge from their hiding spots, moving as one as her arrow flies and Walpole spins, quicker than she expects or expected from him, and her arrow misses his head by an inch. She's reaching for another arrow from the quiver across her back as Walpole looks bemusedly from the arrow embedded in the stall behind him to she herself, on the rooftop and aiming again.

Curiously, he unsheathes his cutlasses and gestures to her with them and then to the ground before him. She sees it for what it is: _an invitation_.

"Amelie –" Hana tries again, reaching to grasp her arm as Amelie's face twists into a furious scowl and her lip curls in a snarl.

She leaps from the roof, arms thrown to the side as she swan dives, landing hard in the hay below – scouted beforehand in case of need to join the battle quickly.

When she emerges, guns are being fired and swords are being drawn, and a hulking armoured man wielding a large axe strikes down two assassins at once. Amelie somehow manages to think on the conversations she'd had on the Gipsy; _El Tiburón_ , she remembers Hana telling her, the Grand Master Torres' bodyguard and one to avoid at all costs.

She sees now why.

Amelie wants to avoid her cutlass but sees no other way of getting to Walpole – she can see the traitor through the brawl, on the other side and fighting savagely, cutlasses ringing on contact with blades that would remove his head from his shoulders. He sees her too; he smirks at her, an action she thinks should be familiar but instead is only confusing, and she returns her attention to her surroundings in time to dodge a bullet from a man in a swirling scarlet cape.

Hana joins the fight, a blowpipe to her lips and a dart shooting forth, catching a yellow-coated soldier in the neck, and Amelie moves with the grace of a dancer, reaching for an arrow and nocking quickly. Her white feathered arrow strikes true, catching the shoulder of a soldier whose wide bladed sword would've easily taken Darío's head and giving her companion time to recover from his attack and save himself.

The arrow turns heads – a man with a nasty scar spider-webbing along his left cheek, the wound pale pink in healing and with veins of white reaching across his face and towards his eye finds her and her bow and grins lecherously. She has eyes only for Walpole, the traitor in blue striking down assassins so easily and unfeelingly – he moves with a lewd elegance and strikes with the cruelty of a devil.

Amelie's arrows take more lives before she draws her cutlass and approaches him, striking through any in her way and finding it more and more difficult to ignore the fallen around her; men and women in white lie at her feet, bleeding from wounds in necks and sides and chests, men and women she shared a room with last night as they slept and prepared for a fight they were sure they could win.

 _That was last month_ , she hears in her head, _this is now_ , as Kidd's words come back to haunt, so proud, so sure, _we have the Templars runnin' scared_.

Walpole meets her strike head on, grinning triumphantly and his breath hot on her face with how close they've gotten. She backs away as he swings forward with the other cutlass, the blade missing her cheek but catching a lock of her hair; the curl falls like an ember, lost under his foot as he pounces for her again.

He's more skilled with the weapons than Amelie ever gave him credit for, striking hard and fast and unforgivingly, and Amelie realises late that she's in too deep fighting him alone. Both blades meet her one with a resounding clang; the metal scrapes as he edges closer, pushing her back and drawing himself nearer.

His eyes are hidden in the shadow of his hood and his strength outweighs hers; his cutlass presses hard against hers, edging closer and closer to her throat and a killing blow. It's hard to keep a straight head when she's staring death in the face, when Walpole is still smirking at her, and blond stubble surrounds lips thinned in concentration.

Panicked, Amelie lashes out with her leg and her knee catches Walpole – _no_ , _not Walpole_ , she's thinking now, over and over again, _he's not him_ – in the stomach, forcing him back while her fist catches him in the jaw.

He stumbles back, cradling his jaw, and his hood has fallen from her hit. Her cutlass doesn't waver but her resolve does; sea blue eyes stare back her, wry and amused, and dirty blond hair surrounds an unfamiliar and tanned face.

Amelie falters.

"Who the hell are you?"


	5. The Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie's mistake bites her in the ass and there's a hurricane coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote and re-wrote and re-wrote this chapter like a million times so hopefully it's halfway coherent lol

He watches her and she watches him. They circle each other slowly, cutlasses hanging in the air between them, while the air is rife with the sounds of battle.

Not-Walpole steps forward slowly, the unwavering blade in his hands caressing her own, the metal singing in their hands as Amelie steps backwards. She's struggling to control her breath, struggling to keep her hands and her heartbeat steady, feeling nothing but unease and a churning in her gut. The smirk has fallen from his face and a bright red mark is blooming on his jaw where her fist connected with the flesh.

Amelie looks at him, the unhooded man with the blonde hair, and can't see anything cruel about him, can't see anything that might suggest why he would steal a man's robes and join the Templars. The audacious golden brooch on his waist – Amelie's fingers had smoothed over that very metal in a moment of drunken stupidity, she _knows_ it – the symbol of the Brotherhood Duncan Walpole had betrayed... this pretender wears these clothes as easily as he wears the name he has stolen.

And _damn it_ but Amelie thinks, in time, the very outfit he wears, he _stole_ , could maybe one day grow to _suit_ him.

 _Focus_ , she tells herself, studying his face; tanned skin and scars and more than a few broken noses. He's quite clearly been in his fair share of fights, she thinks, and the scar through his right eyebrow, that stretches to the beginning of his cheekbone, reminds her of one Kidd has. Kidd's is longer than this man's though, the cut further down his tanned cheek, and Amelie's mind starts to wander; what will Kidd think of this mess? What will he think of her mistakes?

Her great, great-something grandmother often didn't think things through, Amelie's mother used to tell her, and it created more problems than it solved. It created a temper that follows her descendants like a ghost, that haunts their actions. It created an inheritable stubbornness and a wilfulness that can't be ignored.

 _The Crawley's have tempers_ , Amelie overheard Shaun tell Desmond, as she walked away from them and towards a corner where she could find silence and solitude and Esme. _All of them._

Amelie learned the lesson of the consequences of quick tempers a long time ago, when the first of her friends followed her into a firefight and didn't come out of it again.

 _I learned that lesson long ago_ , she thinks, forcing herself to move, _yet here I am acting no better than a novice_.

"Now, lass," says her opponent, edging ever closer, the blade in his hand singing against her own. He has an accent unfamiliar to her, roguish but musical, the polar opposite of the proper and plummy voice Duncan Walpole has- _had_? It's starting to become clear to her that this man could not have taken Walpole's place without a fight – and the scars and smirks he wears tell her exactly what the outcome was.

"Who are you?" she repeats, more cautious than baffled this time but her rage simmering below the surface.

His lips quirk and his voice deepens and changes in a mockery of a man of the upper-class; an imitation of Walpole. "Duncan Walpole, of course."

He lunges forward and Amelie's hidden blade springs free as she lifts her arm, catching the blade and forcing it away – this pretender was going for the killing blow, going for her neck and a quick end. He's good, even if he's unrestrained and untrained.

She gasps, stepping back, lifting her cutlass between them, "What did you do to him?"

The pretender shrugs openly. It's a careless gesture Amelie takes advantage of. She lunges forward in a mimicry of the action he performed only seconds before. The answer to her question seems unimportant now, seems irrelevant compared to the choice of killing a man who stole a traitor's clothes and took his place.

"Come now," says the pretender jovially, parrying her blade, and coming in close. Their cutlasses press against each other between their bodies, the blades a hairsbreadth away from their necks; Amelie can feel his breath on her cheek, can smell the rum that taints his lips. This close she can see the pox scar above his eyebrow, and the littler scars – nicks and cuts here and there that don't seem to be so striking as the two on the right side of his face.

 _Pirate_ , she thinks, recalling conversations had with Kidd on the deck of that ship – _there's not a pirate alive that would give up the chance to have rum_.

Amelie thinks now that it was a mistake for her to ever accept his invitation to the fight; her bow and quiver are heavy on her back, heavy with the realisation that she could be standing on that rooftop, safer up there than down here, of more use to the fight up there than down here.

She needs to _go_.

She lifts her knee, her intentions clear but her action anticipated, and he stops her with a large hand on her thigh and a smirk ever present on his lips.

"Fool me once," he breathes, carefree and his blue eyes sparkle when they meet her stunned green ones.

She inhales once, twice, _focusses_ -

He stumbles back as her hidden blade springs free, the blade missing his neck by inches but catching the hem of his hood. His laugh is breathless and surprised, his body angled to lunge for her again-

Darío throws himself between them, a blade in each hand and a command on his lips – " _Run!_ " – and while Amelie's never been one to turn her back on a fight, this is one command she will listen to.

 _I did this_ , she thinks dazedly, turning her back on the two men and their clashing swords, _I forced them all into action too soon_.

Val is waiting for her at the corner of an alley, a sword in his hand and blood on his robes, and she reaches him in time for El Tiburón to launch his axe across the space to them, in time for the weapon to miss her by metres and instead embed itself deep in Val's chest.

Her breath catches in her throat and Amelie nearly loses her grip on her cutlass, is nearly caught off guard by the sword that moves to take her head.

She sees dark hair and a red cape, a wide-brimmed hat with a yellow feather, and a flintlock aimed at her face while the other hand holds a sword steady at her throat. Amelie's not afraid to die – she's afraid of everything she hasn't done. She hasn't found Esme, she hasn't found a way home; if she dies here, there's no one to mourn her, no one to know who she is. Everyone who knows her is dead already or thinks she's gone.

Everyone who knows her knows her in the future.

The Templar before her cocks his head and speaks in a heavily accented voice, "Miss Crawley, I presume."

"Julien du Casse," Hana had told her from their vantage point before, "the Templar's arms dealer." Her voice had taken a repulsed tone. "He takes the hidden blades of our fallen as _souvenirs_."

Her heart in her throat and Val's body still twitching between them, Amelie says, "I don't believe we've had the pleasure," and fights to keep her voice steady and her mind clear.

The Templar inclines his head, a mockery of a greeting, and returns, "No I don't believe we have. _Je suis désolé_. *1"

She doesn't believe him for a second.

Du Casse moves his blade slowly to her hood, catching the fabric and pushing it back, exposing her fiery hair and affirming her identity, she's sure, and her hand clenches around the hilt of her cutlass. Over his shoulder, Pace emerges from the shadows, lifting a blowpipe to his mouth and his eyes fixed intently on du Casse's back.

" _Oui_ ," she says in return, a sardonic smile gracing her lips, " _quel dommage_. *2"

She steps back quickly as the dart catches du Casse in the neck, lifting her cutlass and ducking out of the way of his pistol. The Templar staggers on his feet and Amelie swings her leg around, remembering her training, utilising the rage that's been coursing through her veins since the battle began. She might have missed her chance at Walpole – for all she knows, the man is probably dead and _good riddance_ too – but that doesn't mean she's any less angry.

Not yet anyway.

 _Mon trésor_ , her mother scolds, _nothing good comes from the Crawley rage. Not ever._

 _A cool head and a clear mind_ , Amelie thinks, inhaling, exhaling, sheathing her cutlass and searching for an escape. They've lost this fight, that much is clear, and she can hear Kidd's voice in her head – _we have the Templars runnin' scared_ , said so _proudly_ , so matter-of-factly.

"Not anymore," she murmurs, as her eyes catch sight of Hana, a blade in her chest and her dark hair falling free of its braid. Pace is gone and Darío has fled, and Amelie's angry at them but knows it's stupid to be; they're the smart ones, the ones who've seen a lost cause and acted accordingly.

She needs to do that now too.

 _Stay alive_ , Esme used to say to her, when she had to grab her weapons and follow the others.

 _Stay alive_ , Amelie had whispered when Esme turned her back and stormed away.

 _Stay alive_ , Amelie tells herself now, imagining it's Esme saying the words, Desmond saying the words, her mother, Rebecca, Shaun.

 _Stay alive_. _Stay alive_.

She hears Torres shouting, sees the Sage taking off into the streets with Not-Walpole hot on his heels, and around her the last of her assassin allies fall as Amelie starts to run.

 _We are soldiers_ , her mother used to say, _we fight, mon trésor. So_ _fight_.

She's ashamed to be fleeing, ashamed to be following in Pace and Darío's wake, ashamed that she hasn't gone down fighting in this battle. She's ashamed to have forgotten everything her mother told her, guilty that she's listening to Esme instead – _stay alive, find me, you're here because you're looking for me, FIND ME_ – and maybe that's why she's so distracted.

A shot is fired at her feet, drawing her to a halt quickly, dust kicked up under her boots. To her left stands the scarred man, coattails blowing in the wind and eyes steely and fixed on her. To her right is El Tiburón, silver armour glinting ominously in the light, _so silent_ as he just _stares_ at her.

Amelie's never felt more cowed by anyone in her life.

( _Well_ , she thinks, _Bill has this way about him but that's different_ -)

"Miss Crawley," greets the scarred man and Amelie scraps for a name, struggles to remember Hana's words because the woman is bleeding out on the ground, dark hair spread around her head like a bizarre halo gathering dust.

She hears El Tiburón's thundering steps as he approaches, slow and lumbering, but Amelie has no doubt the man can move like a bull if required. Du Casse is behind her and the reality begins to set in; she's surrounded but still armed – she doesn't doubt her abilities with her bow but her skills with a cutlass are by no means good enough to see her through this.

"Lay down your arms, _mademoiselle_ ," says du Casse, still swaying on the spot but recovered enough that she won't be able to take him by surprise.

They want her alive, she realises then, as the hulking and silent man advances ever still. She backs up regardless, loathe to be touched by him, and instead comprehends too late that she's nowhere to go but to the other two. Du Casse has her in a firm chokehold before she can blink, before she can even retaliate, the barrel of the pistol in his hand at her temple.

"Her weapons," du Casse orders calmly, " _s'il vous plaît_."

The scarred man – _Rogers_ , she remembers, _Woodes Rogers, that's his name_ – is quick and methodical but Amelie feels like they could strip her naked and it wouldn't be as humiliating.

 _The Crawley's are soldiers_ , she thinks, as Rogers fumbles with the clasps of her hidden blades and draws them away, _but what are soldiers without their weapons_?

Du Casse hums in fascination as Rogers studies her blades, the thinner, sleeker style of them that is owed only to the fact she is from the future. The Templars seem to realise this too and Amelie starts to worry then about just how much Walpole told these men in his letters.

"I'll take them," says du Casse smugly, "as _souvenirs_."

Amelie tries to wrench free at that, forgetting the threat of the pistol and reacting on instinct – her hidden blades are _hers_ , from the _future_ , she used them to fight by Desmond's side, to fight with Shaun and Rebecca and Esme. They can't take them from her, they _can't_ –

"Amelie Crawley," says Grand Master Torres, approaching at a leisurely pace but with a straight back and a posture of a man in victory. "Mr Walpole has told us much about you."

"Really?" Amelie asks, the words leaving her mouth before she can stop herself, the words escaping her lips as she hears her mother and Esme and Rebecca saying, _stay alive, stay alive_. "That's rude. He didn't return the favour at all."

Du Casse hands her off to a couple of soldiers standing nearby, his lip curled in a sneer as her wrists are encircled by iron manacles. They pinch her pale skin, unforgivingly tight and _old_ – Amelie knows how to pick locks (she wouldn't be a very good assassin if she didn't) but manacles like this, heavy and chunky... she's never had cause to need to learn.

She holds her head high regardless, meeting the gazes of the Templars defiantly and quashing the voices she hears that tell her _stay alive, stay alive_. What right does she have, she thinks, to stay alive when around her lie her dead allies, struck down before they could flee? What right does she have to stay alive when she was ready to flee herself? What right does she have to _stay alive_ when everyone who loves her, who she's loved, is dead or gone or _not even born yet_?

"Grand Master," Rogers starts carefully as Torres watches her, a calculating and considering look on his face. "Shall we have her escorted to the prisons?"

Torres shakes his head, never losing the contemplative look, and Amelie's stomach start to churn; she won't show her nerves, not to these Templars, won't show weakness.

"No," says Torres, slowly and carefully, "this situation requires more delicacy."

Over his shoulder, Not-Walpole is returning, holding the Sage at gunpoint. Those blue eyes find her, masking surprise well with indifference, and bitterness rises in Amelie. It's _his_ fault, she thinks, _his_ fault for wearing robes that don't belong to him. It's _his_ fault she gave in to the Crawley weakness and jumped headfirst into a gunfight.

"If what Duncan says is correct," Torres continues, while Amelie turns her glower away from the pretender and back to the Grand Master, "then we can spare no expense with this particular information." He pauses, glances briefly over his shoulder to the pretender and the Sage, and adds, "Send her to the ports. Our colleagues in Seville will get the information we need from her."

The Walpole pretender eyes her uncertainly as she's dragged away, spitting curses and French and her eyes on Julien du Casse – on the Templar who holds her hidden blades in his hands like trophies.

* * *

Just when she thought she could get used to sailing.

Amelie's lost count of how long she's been on this ruddy ship – she wants to say _boat_ , wants to be furious even though there's no one but those two Spanish soldiers at the doorway, her guards who haven't spoken a word to her this _whole time_. Most days she finds herself staring helplessly at the table by the door where her bow and quiver sit, _waiting_ for her. They're the only weapons that weren't removed from her person that afternoon in Havana, the only weapons to make it onto this ship, and if she wasn't shackled to the bloody floor, those guards wouldn't stand a chance.

Thoughts of killing them are all she has; she's still angry, furious that du Casse took one of the only things she has that still connects her to her _time_ , furious that the Templars took her cutlass, the gift from Kidd, from a friend she might never see again.

 _Some great use I am_ , she thinks, slouched against the wall at her back. The chain clinks as she shifts uncomfortably. _How am I supposed to find Esme from here_?

She thinks about the Walpole pretender as well, about sea-blue eyes and wry smirks, about cutlasses between panting bodies and breath tainted with rum hot on her cheek. Who is he? Why would he steal the robes of a traitor – probably _kill_ said traitor with no idea to who the man _really_ was – and complete the man's mission anyway?

 _Who is he_?

The ship lurches and Amelie's eyes find the soldiers again, straining to hear their Spanish mutterings. She doesn't need to know their language to know that they're uneasy, worried, and she thinks they have a right to be. How long have they been sailing – weeks? The sea has never been so choppy as this, so violent.

Amelie reaches for her ankle, trying in vain to soothe the reddened skin under the metal. Her boots were removed when she was brought on board, to make it easier for them to shackle her, and _god_ what she wouldn't give for some aloe right now.

The ship pitches hard to the side again and Amelie throws her hand out to catch herself before she can fall. She finds the guards again, wishes they would _talk_ to her – how long has she gone with silence now? How long has she gone with hearing nothing but her own voice and words said in Spanish by guards who probably would rather she was dead?

Her eyes find the lone candle on the table, the flickering flame atop the dirty white wax. She watches the small light waver and dance, the fire growing smaller and smaller, and when she turns her head away resignedly...

A whistle.

Amelie's head perks up. She looks towards the guards, listens to their mutterings and their caution. She watches the two of them abandon their post and start curiously down the length of the ship, towards the wooden shelving she can see running parallel towards the rooms further down. She strains to see more, strains as far as the chains will let her, and her curiosity turns to unease as a figure, hidden in shadows, dives from their hiding place and drags the soldier out of sight.

 _Assassins_? She wonders, recognising the technique, remembering occasions where she's used it as well.

But the figure that approaches her, hooded and clad in white and blue, is no assassin.

" _You_ ," she snarls, straightening as much as she's able and glowering up at him.

"Easy lass," says Not-Walpole, removing his hood and glancing casually about the small room that's held her for the last few weeks. "Perhaps you should consider being nicer to me, eh? I'm probably your only chance at escape, as it happens."

"What are you doing here?" she demands next, sitting upright and watching him carefully as he strolls about. She examines him as he pauses by the table, hands brushing over her bow and quiver almost curiously, fingers drawing free a white-feathered arrow and holding it delicately in his hands.

"My plans changed," he says offhandedly.

Amelie smirks. "They found you out."

"My handle as Duncan Walpole outlived its usefulness," he clarifies. His thumb spreads the bristles of the feather.

She studies him closer now – he's wearing a leather harness of some kind, strapped across his chest and shoulders – _armour_ is the only way she can think to describe it, and she wonders where he found it, if he _stole_ it like he stole the name he wore before. The golden brooch is gone, the red sash still in place, and accompanying the leather bracers on his arms are his hidden blades – gifted to him, she imagines, by the same bastard who currently has her own.

"Just admit it," she hears herself saying, still smirking, acting more confident than she probably should feel, "you're not as great at pretending as you think."

"Careful," he warns and Amelie's hit a _nerve_. "You want out of those chains, I imagine, and I don't find myself inclined to help."

"Then why are you here?"

She's suspicious and he's completely at ease, holding one of her arrows and leaning against the table, seeming to spare no thought whatsoever to the churning seas beneath them and the ship that continues to rock more and more savagely. He shrugs, turning the arrow in his hands and seeming to scrutinise it.

"I _could_ help," he tells her, as though they're sitting to tea and discussing a business deal, and she's _waiting_ for it, waiting for the _if_. He presses the pad of his forefinger to the tip of the arrow, testing the edge, and _here it comes_ , she thinks. "If you tell me what information it is you carry that has the Templars so invested in ensuring your survival."

Amelie runs her tongue along her teeth, smirk turning into a grin. "They're _invested_ , are they? That's flattering." She pauses, taking in the blank expression he tries so hard to maintain. "You mean they didn't _tell_ you?"

A muscle in his jaw ticks. His sea-blue eyes are stormy when he fixes his gaze on her.

"I doubt you'll live very long down here," he says, and only his glowering expression betrays the casual tone of his voice. The ship lurches violently again and Amelie's stomach churns. _This is no ordinary storm_. "Not many people survive hurricanes."

 _Hurricane_. The words bounces around her head, ricochets and skyrockets and twirls. _Hurricane_. She's been in a storm before – just the once, gales and rain that fell hard and fast and heavy and with no warning at all – but Seagrave had ordered her below deck and out of the way, demanded it of her. The lurching and rocking had made her vomit more than once, made her regret her decision to sail with them to Havana more than once.

How on _earth_ would a _hurricane_ make her feel?

Amelie swallows. "And you expect to, do you?"

"I don't expect anything," he fires back. "I expect to steal a ship and outrun it at best."

"Then why are you wasting time down here with me?"

He shrugs carelessly. "The Templars think you know something worthwhile," he says nonchalantly. "I want you to tell me what it is." He pauses, his hands playing with the arrow in his hands, and finally he slides the thin wood back into its quiver. "I'll decide for myself if the information is worth your life."

 _Hurricane_.

 _Stay alive_.

_Hurricane._

_Fight, mon trésor._

She coaches herself to take deep breaths and swallows hard, clenching her fists. _Barter_ , she tells herself, _barter for your life_. _Fight_.

"You get me out of this and I'll tell you what you want," she settles on eventually, flexing her hand, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.

"That's not the bargain," says the pretender, cocky and unimpressed. He turns to leave, throws over his shoulder, "Not many men who would rather drown than swallow their pride. Suppose you being a woman changes the rules somewhat."

 _Damn it, damn it, damn it, NO_.

She scrambles for words, for an excuse, for a reason to let her –

"I know where the Observatory is!"

 _Believe me, believe me_ -

"Where?"

Amelie's bark of laughter is stressed and high-pitched. "Are you freaking _kidding me_? You think I'm going to tell you the one thing that's probably going to save my life?" She jerks her ankle, the chains rattling and drawing his eyes. "Well?"

 _Don't call my bluff, don't call my bluff_...

"How do I know you're not just saying that to save your skin?"

"Are you willing to risk it?" Amelie dares to ask, voice shaking like her hands, bluff holding steady in the face of his distrust. _Pirate_ , she remembers thinking in the battle, _pirate_. She might not be as well read as Esme, might have never been as interested, but she _knows_ stories of pirates, stereotypes. _Please_ , she starts to pray, _let him be greedy and over-ambitious_.

He releases her with a well-aimed and hard kick to the bolt. Amelie scrambles to her feet, sliding swiftly into her boots and lacing them up. Her muscles are stiff and sore and she'll retie the laces when they've passed the worst of the storm.

" _Merci,_ " she mutters, when her quiver is on her back and her bow is in her hands. The pirate eyes it distastefully, the sneer on his lips familiar and aggravating to her, but it's all she has now, all she has without her hidden blades. She rolls her eyes, snaps, "Oh, piss off," and follows him when he shakes his head and starts to lead her out of the room.

There's a man waiting for them, large and muscled, with dark skin and scars so dark they might be black. They run in parallel lines; three under his chin and three under each eye. He looks her up and down quickly, no condescension in his eyes, only brief consideration.

"Ready?" he asks the pirate edgily.

The pirate nods once. "Let's get us a crew and outrun this hurricane."

Their new companion ascends first and Amelie eyes the pirate again. She starts to plan, starts to contemplate her options and outcomes; if she can keep up her bluff until they reach land, she can find allies and make her way back to Tulum. Failing that, maybe she can find her way _home_ , find one of those blasted temples or Esme. Maybe she could find Esme and they could find _their_ way home.

But part of her thinks it might not be all that easy.

 _Stay alive_.

"You probably know my name," she quips aloud, running her fingers along the bowstring as the pirate moves to grip a rung on the ladder, "but I've yet to learn yours."

His smirk is criminal, his eyes sparkling with mischief, and he introduces, offhandedly and ascending after the other man, "Edward Kenway."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – I'm sorry.
> 
> *2 – What a pity.


	6. Captain Edward Kenway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie unofficially joins a pirate crew and her escape from the treasure fleet is threatened by a hurricane.

_Kenway._

_Kenway._

_Kenway._

Amelie remembers a time that seems so long ago – a time in the Grand Temple, staring dully at the blue glow of the lights while Desmond relived the memories of his ancestors in the Animus. She remembers a fight, a warning, an argument between father and son, a discovery. She remembers Haytham and Connor, father and son sharing the same name of the man she has just met. She remembers a thief with white-blonde hair and the revolution that changed the world.

 _Kenway_.

She follows him up the ladder, follows him as they sneak along the deck of the ship towards the men huddled near the helm, chained and imprisoned. They watch the skies overhead; heavy dark clouds are closing in and the rigging of the ship sways and swings as the ship rocks to and fro. Amelie sees forked lightning, splitting open the sky, and the wind picks up, battering her sides and tousling her hair.

"We should move quickly," advises the large black man by her side. "That hurricane will be upon us in short time."

"Aye," says Edward Kenway, peering around the cargo crates they're crouched behind. Soldiers in yellow patrol the deck cautiously, muttering under their breaths to each other. There's one alone by the helm, facing away from them and staring instead at the prisoners, a hand on the hilt of the cutlass at his side. Kenway nods to him and then fixes a pointed stare on Amelie. "If we get those two, d'you think you can handle that one?"

He's referring to her bow, she thinks, and Amelie nods once, despite the unease coursing through her. Using her bow is like breathing to her but she's been without it for a few weeks, without the practice. She takes stock of the wind, tries to imagine how much it will affect the arrow she fires, and tugs experimentally on the bowstring, testing the pull.

"Whenever you're ready," she tells him in a low voice, reaching into her quiver for an arrow and nocking it.

The pirate looks doubtful but nonetheless gestures to the man at his side. They lunge from their place and towards the soldiers and Amelie steps out, pulling back the bowstring and aiming, feeling the wind, taking the risk –

The arrow catches the soldier in the shoulder and he staggers forward, an exclamation of Spanish on his lips, while Amelie pulls back another arrow and fires again. She wants to think Kenway seems impressed, wants to stroke her own ego a bit, but the fact she had to fire two arrows makes her believe he'll think his doubts about her bow are warranted.

Their companion disappears below deck, slipping quickly through the hatch and out of sight, while Kenway frees the eight or so men bound near the helm.

"Come on lads," he tells them, as they scramble to their feet, "if we're to drown today it won't be here."

Amelie's eyes find the ship they're hoping to steal; more sailors in yellow wander along its length, peering at the sky and the waters. Their other escapee appears back on deck, trailed by another ten men, perhaps a couple more, and Amelie watches the eyes of this rag-tag crew settle on Kenway, seeing instantly the man they want to follow.

She stands next to him as he surveys the brig, a hard frown on his face. The hurricane is nearing, Amelie thinks, as rain starts to fall in large drops and pelt their skin. Kenway's hair is darker now that it's wet, sticking to his cheeks and brow.

"Wait for my signal to board," he announces, untying a rope from the rigging nearby, and stepping onto the bannister.

Amelie watches him swing across and starts to think then that she's woken up in the middle of a _Pirate of the Caribbean_ movie. The large man from below deck hands her the rope that swings back to the ship, the very same Kenway used, and Amelie grabs it with shaking hands.

" _Jesus_ ," she mutters as she watches him, hearing him holler over the howling gales, "Lay aboard, lads!"

Cheers and shouts erupt when boots land on the wood and Amelie manages to stumble towards the helm, standing at Kenway's right and clinging to the wooden bannisters. She's overlooking the crew as they clamber onto the ship, as they reach for ropes and cannons.

"Save your singing for Davy Jones, you jagabats," their companion shouts, standing at Kenway's other side. "It's a hard wind comin'!"

"The man speaks true," Kenway shouts, closer to the helm. He starts to bark orders, his tone one that brokers no argument, and Amelie watches their skeleton crew scramble to obey. "You lot – weigh anchor. As for the rest, half at the foremast and half at the main. Let's outrun this hurricane!" His hands grip the helm and Amelie can't help but think that he _belongs_ here, standing above them all, ordering them all. "You two," he says, and Amelie swipes locks of her damp red hair from her eyes. "Keep watch on those galleons. See they don't give us trouble."

Amelie looks over her shoulder, watching the large ships of the treasure fleet while overhead the sails of their newly acquired ship are let loose. The masts creak and groan as they're battered by the harsh winds, and, just like on the galleon before, the rigging around them swings and sways, dangerously close to hitting anyone not paying any attention. The galleons seem much smaller now that she's not aboard one, less threatening now that she can't see the mortars and cannons that line their sides.

"They won't," says the man on Kenway's other side, and Amelie has to strain to hear him over the pelting rain and howling winds. "Far too slow for this weather."

Amelie doesn't want to think about the implications of his words. Hurricanes are nothing good, after all, and she's seen videos and pictures from places ravaged by these kinds of storms; buildings destroyed, shops and homes swept away by a rising tide. Lightning cracks frightening close, startling a scream from her lips, as nearby the sails of a gunboat go up in flames.

"Christ," she shouts, shocked and clutching tightly to the bannister under her hands.

She thinks about the Gipsy, about Seagrave and his crew – how lucky she was to be sailing with him. How lucky she was that they were never attacked because of Seagrave's affiliations to piracy. On the ship's other side, another gunboat fires at them, the cannonball striking through the wood and into the cabin below. Another one hits the main mast, splintering the wood high over their head and almost knocking a member of the crew from his perch.

Remarkably, the mast does not fall.

"Bark any orders you think wise, mate," Kenway hollers to the man at his side. "We're up against it here!"

"These men know their place," is the answer. "They'll see us home."

Amelie glances quickly over her shoulder again, to the treasure fleet fast falling behind, to the gunboats that follow too close for comfort, and to the cannonball that rips through the back of the ship and over their heads. It hits the mast again, detaches ropes from one of the sails, and a member of their new crew loses his footing and tumbles into the water.

Another member of the crew struggles to hold on, clutching to barrels behind the helm and near the damage done, and winds and hail batter at Amelie as she leaves her place and reaches for him. Kenway shouts her name as her boots slip against the wet wood underfoot, and her hand grasps the crewmember's shirt moments before he loses his grip entirely.

"Hold on," she shouts, reaching back for something to grab, searching desperately for a way to anchor the two of them on the ship. The wood is slippery, her hands almost numb with cold, but instead of finding the bannister she finds another hand.

Another crew member, a small man with dark hair and strong arms and a determined expression on his face. He clutches tight to Amelie's hand, his other hand wrapped around the rigging, and doesn't let go until the three of them are on the deck, heaving and gasping and soaking still. Amelie knows she isn't alone in wishing the storm will pass soon, wishing that the skies will return to their calm blue.

As it is, it's far from over.

"Water spout!" she hears shouted from somewhere and her head snaps up, her hands still clutching tightly to the crewmembers beside her. They lie in a heap, hands entwined, arms locked, hair in their eyes and faces, as around them the storm rages and the winds howl. The masts continue to creak and groan and one of the sails tears.

Their pursuers have abandoned the chase. Amelie sees the water spout in the distance, a twisting and gyrating mass of water reaching into the clouds, grey like the sky and deadly like the seas. Kenway stands with his feet shoulder-width apart and his arms spread, hand gripping the helm in a white-knuckled grip. The wind tosses his hair around his face and shoulders but he hardly seems to notice; his features are set in a frown, his lips turned downwards as he concentrates, and Amelie's completely enraptured.

This man _belongs_ here, she realises, he belongs at the helm of a ship, belongs in command of a crew. Edward Kenway _belongs_ here, battling the sea and bringing them to safety.

Amelie doesn't know the man well – she's not sure she wants to know him at all, really – but there's something about him while he's at the helm of a ship, something almost _honourable_ , brave. What a mess she's gotten herself into – considering a pirate brave and honourable. For a moment she seems to have forgotten the very real possibility he will kill her for lying to him, for lying to him to ensure her survival.

 _Maybe I'll be off the ship by then_ , she considers with a hum. The noise is lost to the winds and battering rain, lost to what she thinks after; _or dead_.

"It's clearing," mumbles one of her new companions, and Amelie lifts her head, turning her face to the sky.

Sure enough, the clouds are starting to part. Beams of light fight to break through and the sky starts to lighten. The waves still bash the side of their ship though they seem to be weakening now and the rain that once fell heavy and hard and dangerous around them has changed into a drizzle. The sails catch the wind and release it, the mast doesn't creak as much or as worrisomely, and Amelie slowly starts to get to her feet.

The deck is slippy under her boots as she rises, hands clutching still to the arms of the crewmates beside her, but her face is turned to the sky, to the now light rain that sprinkles her cheeks and lashes. She slowly releases the men beside her, feeling more at ease on the ship now, feeling the ship slowly starting to return to its normal sway.

A cheer starts near the bowsprit and works its way to the stern. The two men at her side shake her with large and strong hands, tug her into quick embraces that throw her rain soaked hair into their eyes and mouths, while Amelie watches Kenway slump against the helm and sink to the deck. The black man at his side starts for the stairs – looking about him sternly, studying the masts and sails – and she watches him until he disappears through the hatch and below deck.

The men slap her on the back once more and take off for the stairs, cheering and dancing with the other crew, and Amelie exhales slowly, watching the yellow sky clearing to blue. She follows Kenway's lead, slumping on the wet deck, and feeling like she might cry from relief.

Amelie throws her head back, reassured by the wood at her back and the wind in her hair, and across from her, leaning against the helm and chuckling breathlessly, disbelievingly, sits Edward.

"I'll wager you're glad you struck up with me, eh?" he says to her, lips quirked in a grin.

There are a million responses in her head – anger, cynicism, sarcasm – but instead she laughs too, tired and wet and cold and _relieved_. Edward Kenway laughs with her, sea-blue eyes dancing with mirth, and for a moment Amelie forgets it all. She forgets it all because his laugh is the most charming and endearing thing she's ever heard and she thinks she wouldn't mind hearing it again.

The large black man with the dark scars on his face reappears, ascending the stairs towards them. Edward gets to his feet, grinning roguishly as he faces him, and Amelie stays put, running her hands through her damp hair and laughing tearfully.

"Godfrey 'lijah, we made it," she hears from the crew, and then, another voice, deeper and sterner and awed as their new ally and Edward start towards the side of the ship, "Oh, what a mess, _Jesus._ "

Amelie gets to her feet, blinking against the harsh sun that starts to burst forth from the retreating grey clouds overhead, and what she sees takes her breath away and sets her gut churning.

The treasure fleet lies wrecked around them, ships beached and split in two, masts floating alongside their ship and sails in tatters. The bows and sterns of ships are washed up on stretches of land, smaller ships lucky enough not to be dragged to the bottom of the ocean.

" _Merde_ ," Amelie mutters in fearful disbelief. How close she had come, she realises now. Death had its hands around her, she thinks, and Edward Kenway pulled her from its grasp.

"By God," says the very man, striding the length of the quarter deck. He huffs a laugh, arrogant like she's coming to believe him to be, and stops between Amelie and their ally. "We pulled this one straight from the teeth of Neptune." She watches him briefly eye the man before him, watches him thrust his hand out, the dark brown leather strapped around his forearm glistening with rain. "I'm Edward. Much thanks for your aid back there."

The large and intimidating man clasps Edward's arm firmly and with an amiable nod. "Adéwalé," he introduces in return, fixing his eyes on Amelie as Edward nods, releasing his arm and wandering away again. He appears deep in thought, peering around him at the shipwrecks and his newly acquired ship, while Amelie shakes Adéwalé's proffered hand.

"Amelie," she tells him, feeling less unnerved by him the longer she's around him. For his large manner and aggressive appearance, she's seen little in his actions to prove this judgement.

He nods once in acknowledgement and turns his eyes back to Edward as their unofficial Captain asks, "Ever been to Nassau, Adéwalé?"

Edward's testing the name out, Amelie thinks, testing how it feels on his lips.

"Not yet," is Adéwalé's blunt and cautious reply while Amelie tries to remember what little history she knows. _Nassau_ – she knows that name, she's sure she does, but she can't place it.

 _Esme would know_ , she thinks next, a thought that continues to haunt and plague her. _Esme knows everything_.

Kidd mentioned it, Amelie recalls; it's where he got her coat and cutlass – the very same cutlass she now no longer has. She dares to hope that she might see him again, that Kidd might steal her away from Edward Kenway before the man can realise she doesn't know where the Observatory is. She hopes Kidd will steal her away before Kenway pries from Amelie information more valuable than this stupid Observatory – whatever it is.

Amelie's eyes find Edward again, leaning to look over the side of the ship, studying the damage. He inhales through his teeth.

"By God, she took some knocks, didn't she?" he comments. His hands caress the wood under his fingers lovingly. He glances back at the two of them. "I think I'll keep her."

There's a sour look on Adéwalé's face as Edward returns to the helm, wrapping his hands around it and barking his orders for the crew to hear.


	7. The Bargain

Edward proudly names his new ship the Jackdaw.

"For a sly bird I loved as a child back in Swansea," he explains, sounding a touch wistful. Amelie's brows rise in understanding, finally placing the musical accent; _Welsh_ , she thinks, _of course_.

Adéwalé smirks, but to Amelie it seems peeved and not at all friendly. "A dark little creature, no?"

Amelie leans against the bannister at her back, watching the encounter curiously, and wondering if Adéwalé might be an unsuspecting ally to her. Part of her hopes the two might engage in a brawl – she wonders if Adé might be convinced to take her back to Tulum, on the off chance he were to kill Edward.

There's a pensive expression on Edward's face and a bite to his words. "Did it rub you wrong when I took this brig as mine own?"

Adé's chuckle is bland and his tone resigned when he says, "It was the kind of rub I have learned to endure sailing among faces of such..." he pauses, his eyes trailing over the two of them, "...fairness."

Edward nods. "It's true," he concedes. "Most of these men wouldn't accept you as a Captain."

Adéwalé's expression remains impassive as he turns to examine the crew of the Jackdaw. Amelie almost thinks that that's the end of the conversation, that Edward will leave things as they are. She wonders if she can convince Adé to sneak away from the ship if Edward will not find some way to repay him for his aid in their escape.

Instead, Edward surprises her by asking, "So what fair role would complement such _unfairness_?" and Amelie realises any hope of having Adéwalé help her escape this ship, the _Jackdaw_ , is fleeting at best.

Adé considers the question carefully and Amelie looks away, towards the back of the ship and the battered wood there, to the crewmembers idling near the powder barrels. They're careful of the large hole from the battle, from the gunboats that pursued them into the hurricane, and Amelie wonders just how far away Nassau is and if they'll even make it before the ship starts falling to pieces.

The rational part of her mind tells her they'll be fine – they escaped the hurricane mostly unscathed, after all, save for a few rough scrapes and some breaches along the side and the back – but another part wonders constantly on plans for escape. Edward will find out eventually that she lied for her survival and she'd very much like to distance herself from him _before_ that happens.

"I'll be your Quartermaster," Adéwalé answers eventually, stepping forward, leaning against the bannister and fixing Edward with another hard look. "Nothing less."

"Alright," Edward says. He places both hands on the helm, returning his attention to the seas and sparing Amelie no glance. "And as Quartermaster have you any immediate counsel for this tyro Captain?"

"Rest and repast would do us good before Nassau," says the Quartermaster, studying the crew on deck sternly. "Water for drinking. Hunting – for food and repairs." He looks pointedly at the large hole behind them.

"Well reasoned, sir," says Edward agreeably. "Hunting it shall be. We'll find a decent place to drop anchor." His eyes land on Amelie, lounging and silent on his other side. "And you and I will talk."

 _The Observatory_ , Amelie thinks, but what she says is, in a blasé tone and with a wry smile, "I can't wait."

Edward starts to muse then, about pistols he saw in the hold an hour or so earlier, on a quick inspection while they caught their breaths. Amelie had stayed put, leaning against the bannister, and had instead been approached by the two crewmembers from before – Seth, she'd learned, fidgety and nervous and _thankful_ , and Donoghue, small and slight and _Irish_. Seth had pulled her into a tight embrace, murmuring in her hair his gratitude, and Donoghue had nodded her way, damp dark hair drying into curls.

They'd made themselves scarce when Edward reappeared from below deck, returning to their duties with murmured deference in his direction, and Amelie had ignored the curious scowl upon his face.

 _Allies_ , she thinks now, finding Seth and Donoghue again, _that's what I need to get back_...

 _Home_ , she nearly finishes but she's not sure which one she's referring to - Tulum or 2013? Is she referring to Citlali and Aapo, the assassins who know nothing about her and she nothing about them? Or Shaun and Rebecca, waiting for her? What about Esme, somewhere, waiting for her?

Where is her home anymore? Where does she belong now?

"... the short of it is," she hears Adéwalé saying, taking easily, it seems, to his new role, "we need good equipment kept in fine condition." The muscles in his arms flex as he folds them across his chest, fixing Edward with a stern look Amelie's coming to associate with the new Quartermaster. "For we cannot win every battle with sneers and shouts. So worry about your own armaments when it suits you but don't forget about your Jackdaw as well."

"No, indeed," agrees Edward amiably, and Amelie's surprised to hear him taking the Quartermaster's advice so easily. "We'll make it a point to keep this ship and her crew in fine condition." He sighs then, eyes narrowing at the horizon in thought, and then adds, "If you would, Quartermaster."

Adéwalé takes the helm and Amelie watches curiously as Edward steps away, hand snatching her arm in passing and all but dragging her from the quarter deck. The bannister under her fingers is wrecked and splintered so she avoids using it as she descends the stairs, eyeing the Captain carefully and warily.

He closes the door to the Captain's cabin behind them firmly, despite the lack of privacy it gives them – a cannon fired at the Jackdaw from the pursuing gunboats during the hurricane tore through the large, stained glass windows at the stern, ripping through one of the doors and leaving a gaping hole the size of her torso. The crew continue to do their job, not once trying to peer inside, but Amelie still finds it amusing that Edward thought to close the doors at all.

"Time for that talk, is it?" she asks as he rounds the desk. She glances at the maps laid upon its surface; naval, she notes, with scribblings of Spanish along its edges.

Edward brushes slivers of wood from the charts but leans on the table, fixing her with a critical stare. Amelie's bow and quiver are on her back still; it would be easy to fend him off and reach for them, to end his life here and-

And _what_?

 _Oh, yes, brilliant idea Ams_ , she thinks, shrugging the weapon and quiver from her back and laying them on the desk. _Kill the Captain and face his new and loyal crew all by yourself. Fabulous!_

Edward seems surprised by this action but nonetheless approves and Amelie has to stop herself from hitting him when he reaches for the weapon. He handles it with none of the care or reverence Amelie does, instead tossing it to the collapsed and ruined bed in the corner. The look he gives her after is expectant, as though he's waiting for her to react, and instead she balls her fists and looks away.

"I thought you wanted to wait until we weighed anchor?" she asks aloud, raising her brows challengingly. "Is it easier to dispose of a body at sea?"

"Surely you'd know better than I," muses Edward, infuriatingly calmly, "being an assassin?"

The way he says it makes her skin crawl; he's mocking her, she thinks, mocking the cause she's fighting for, will probably die fighting for, because he doesn't understand them. The Templars revealed their cause to him and he turned his back- for what?

"And from what I gather _you_ were a Templar," she shoots back, "but then that was for all of, what? Five minutes?"

"Aye," he says and he nods in agreement, a roguish smirk accompanying his words, "until their means no longer suited my ends."

"And your 'ends' would be?"

"The Observatory."

Amelie's stomach twists with the reminder. Any hopes she has of escaping have been dashed with his words and it takes everything in her, every ounce of training she can remember, to keep her expression blank of any thought that could give her away.

 _You are an assassin_ , she thinks, and the words are her mother's. _We do not show weakness._

Amelie gives him a nonchalant, one-shouldered shrug. "I thought the Observatory was what the Templars were after as well?"

"I imagine so," says Edward, rounding the table, fingers brushing the maps, the lines that stretch along the paper, "but our purposes for it are leagues apart."

Amelie seizes the opportunity. "And what _are_ the Templars purposes for the Observatory?"

Edward considers her question, watching her face carefully until he stands in front of her, too close for Amelie's comfort. His lips twitch in amusement, the beginnings of a smile, but Amelie begins to see that perhaps she should not underestimate Edward Kenway.

"What does it matter?" he asks eventually, in a low voice. "If you what you said is true, you already know its capabilities."

The gauge each other carefully, standing a few metres apart; Amelie is unarmed now while Edward still carries all of his weapons. Her arms linger longingly on the hidden blades strapped to his arms, still feeling unbearably naked without a vital part of her arsenal.

He catches her staring and shifts his stance as the blades spring free; is he mocking her, she wonders, or showing off what she no longer has?

"So you lied to me," he starts, sounding entirely unsurprised.

Amelie answers with a shrug. "I needed off that ship."

"And off this one as well, I'd wager," he adds seriously. "I wonder just what you'd be willing to do to achieve that."

"Is that a threat, Captain Kenway?"

"A ponder," he says. He leans against the desk, just watching her again, and Amelie watches the sea at his back, the sea spray from the waves battering the ship. She watches the gulls in the distance, dancing through the air, and wishing she was free again.

 _What I would give to go back in time – HA – and stop myself from leaving Tulum_ , she thinks, suppressing a sigh and a chuckle at her wit.

Finally, Edward says, "A truth for a truth?" with a pensive look on his face and a curious grin lighting his features.

Part of Amelie thinks this is unsurprising – _a truth for a truth_ , she hears said, the voice wielding an accent and the words said so unsurely but around a smile – and she wonders if it's ever happened to her before.

It can't possibly have.

Another part of her finds it strange that he would suggest it and she wonders what he's hoping to get from it.

"Fine," she concedes slowly, warily, and then, before he can ask anything, remembering suddenly what was stolen, "Esme's journal. Was it among Walpole's things?"

"Aye," says Edward, "though now it's among Torres'."

Her heart sinks. Part of her had hoped the journal had been lost in the scuffle, that perhaps it had slipped from Walpole's hands and into the ocean. No such luck, apparently.

"We've established you lied," Edward starts, "but why do the Templars want you so badly?"

Her lips quirk. "You mean it's not my sparkling personality?"

"If they needed an assassin, there was plenty to choose from in Havana," Edward says, ignoring her, "yet Torres specifically said he wanted _you_."

"Really?"

 _That_ 's a surprise, Amelie considers, and she wonders again just how _much_ Walpole was able to tell the Templars before –

"Walpole," she says, aware that she's wasting a question, "he's dead?"

"Aye," responds Edward. "Now answer."

How much do the Templars _know_ , she worries now – Esme's journal had too _much_ in it, too many drawings, too many scribbles in the margins, too _much_ information. Everything Esme had learned about the temples was in there, her letters to Amelie, her sketches of the Animus, of Abstergo, of the temples and the pedestal.

" _Merde_ ," she mutters, over and over. "Damn it."

"What's so special about those scratchings?" Edward asks, standing straighter, growing impatient as Amelie tries to control herself.

"You didn't look?"

"I might've glanced through it," he returns. "It was insensible nonsense, far as I'm concerned."

"Christ," Amelie breathes before her voice takes on a harder edge. "Just... what the hell have the assassins ever done to _you_?"

Edward's expression darkens with his anger. He advances slowly, eyes narrowed and lips turned down in a frown, hand hovering menacingly over the cutlass at his side.

"You've done nought but dodge my questions," he snaps warningly, "and I'm not a terribly patient man."

"No, indeed," she mocks, "just a greedy one."

"Aye, I won't deny it. Torres was willing to pay a good price for the arrival of those trinkets."

"Trinkets?" Amelie repeats, "What trinkets?"

"Maps," he answers uncaringly, dismissing her almost immediately afterwards, "though the gold wasn't nearly heavy enough in my hand for all the trouble they caused."

The journal, Amelie doesn't doubt, would have been the most important of those trinkets delivered to Torres.

"So that's it, then?" she demands, temper flaring. "Men and women _died_ , you _fils de pute_! *1"

"Men and women die every day," he retorts, "so long as the gold is right, why should I care if I had a hand in it?"

"You're despicable!"

"That may be so," he says coldly, "but you're unarmed and a member of _my_ crew. You'll answer my questions or –"

" _Please_ ," she scoffs. "You'll _what_? Kill me?"

He looks like he's about to agree, like he's about to strike her right there, quickly and painlessly, in the same manner she's used to using on her targets. Only how long has it been since she's _had_ a target? How long has it been since she's been sent on any missions for the Brotherhood?

She's waiting for the _snick_ of the hidden blade, waiting for him to strike-

He backs away, angry but quite as furious as he had seemed, and every word he speaks seems gritted out between his teeth.

"A bargain, then," he says. "You help me locate the Observatory and I'll see you returned to your assassin _friends_."

She wants to spit it back in his face – she doesn't _need_ to get back to her ' _assassin friends_ ', she needs to get _home_ , to Shaun and Rebecca and Esme. Locating the Observatory will do nothing for her, not when she wants nothing to do with it-

"Perhaps you can answer something for me," Edward pipes up again, hovering over the maps, seeming to come to a decision about something. "Torres mentioned something about a 'Precursor race' – I don't suppose they have something to _do_ with the Observatory?"

 _Precursor race_ , Amelie thinks, stunned, and then, as her heart sinks, _the temples_.

She shakes his outstretched hand and answers his query – "Do we have an accord?" – with a thin, weary smile.

 _Well, merde_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – son of a bitch!


	8. Nassau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jackdaw arrives in Nassau and Amelie is reunited with a friend.

It's a few days before Edward deems the Jackdaw ready to sail.

Their small crew works most of the day away and rests what they can in the evenings, cutting down what trees they can find and fixing what they can so far from civilisation. Edward hunts with a select few members of the crew, dragging carcasses behind him whenever he reappears and grinning smarmily at Amelie's disgusted expressions.

"You want to eat, aye?" he says expectantly, ignoring her scoff and letting her walk away.

Abaco Island is not a big island and Amelie's walked its length more times than she can count, her steps watched closely by Edward whenever he thinks she's not paying attention. A particular afternoon, he'd stood at the base of the tree she'd climbed out of boredom, peering up at her curiously.

"Not planning to jump, are you?" he'd called up, shielding his squinting eyes with his hand.

She rolled her eyes. "I doubt you'd let me."

The repairs are by no means expertly done but when Edward deems them good enough to get them to Nassau, an audible sigh of relief ripples through the crew. Edward claps the shoulder of an older member of the crew – Cuddy, Amelie learns is his name, with streaks of grey in his hair – and appears satisfied. When Amelie joins him by the helm, she spies another holster – a leather strap across his chest housing another pistol that fires one bullet. The words are on the tip of her tongue – " _in the future_..." – and she forces herself to look away before she can say them.

"See something you like?" Edward asks, hands gripping the helm as the sails unfurl above them.

"You wish," is all she can think to say, half-heartedly at best. Does he _know_ he's attractive, she wonders, does he know the scar along his cheek makes hearts race?

"Quartermaster," Edward greets, as Adé ascends the stairs towards them. "Are we well rested? Or shall we idle a while longer?"

"Best weigh anchor," is the answer, as the large man surveys the men. "I think the crew is itching to reach civilisation."

"You'll find no civilisation in Nassau," says Edward cheerily, "but it's a fine place to be merry all the same."

It's late afternoon when they reach Nassau, sliding into port. Amelie can't see any harbour docks and Edward shouts the order of "drop anchor" a small distance away, mentioning that the longboats they have – one, she hears Adé saying, sounding distinctly unimpressed – will be their way ashore.

"Unless you fancy a swim," Edward muses, striding along the stern towards the bannister as shouting from the beach meets their ears.

Amelie smirks. "Only if you join me."

"I think you'd drown me as soon as you got the chance," he fires back.

 _Damn right_.

"Go on Captain Queernabs," says a rough and angry voice on the beach. Edward looks pleased to hear him, and smiles merrily at the three figures on the beach – one in black and another in blue, standing side by side and facing an approaching figure clad in blood red.

"Tell me I'm under arrest," continues the voice – the man in black, advancing on the small red coat. His voice rises to a roar so loud Amelie almost thinks he's standing over her shoulder. " _TELL ME_."

Adé stands at Amelie's other side, just over Edward's shoulder, fingers adjusting the brilliant golden yellow fabric twisted around his head. Amelie fingers the pale green bandana in her hair, twisting the frayed end of the knot, and wondering if Seagrave and the Gipsy made it out of Havana.

"Them your breds?" asks the Quartermaster, nodding towards the two figures on the beach with something akin to admiration sparkling in his eyes.

"Fly away boyo," hollers the figure in blue, as the red coat scampers away, "back to yer master!"

"Aye," says Edward, turning to face them, "we was privateers together before the wars ended."

Similar to Seagrave, Amelie thinks, only these pirates do not serve quite so honourable a cause in the shadows. Adé nods and leaves to prepare a boat for them while Amelie edges closer to the side of the ship, peering at the island and its hut houses, its stretch of white beaches, and the fort to the side of the island. The grey stone crumbles in places and there hardly seems to be a soul on the battlements, but nonetheless Amelie thinks it poses somewhat of a threat.

"I trust you remember our arrangement, lass," says Edward from her side, idling picking at his nails. Amelie hears the veiled threat; Edward has locked her bow and quiver away in his cabin, leaving her vulnerable without them, and she's never been too good at hand-to-hand.

"How could I forget?" she bites irritably.

She clambers into the longboat with him, Edward at her side and a number of the crew with them. They're itching to get ashore, like Adé said, itching to reach the tavern and brothels, like Edward says.

The two men from the beach are gone when they arrive, boots in the cool water as they splash to shore, and Edward immediately strides towards the Harbour Master, idling near his stall and watching the Jackdaw with piqued interest. He greets Edward civilly, shaking his hand, and engages him in conversation.

"I need her repaired and ready to sail," Edward tells the man, "fitted out with new cannons and rigging. _Every_ thing must be replaced."

"It will not be cheap _, señore_ ," says the Harbour Master worriedly.

"You'll get your gold," replies Edward curtly. He catches Amelie's arm when the Harbour Master turns, drawing her towards the beach where Adé is sloshing through the water to meet them. She wrenches free as the Quartermaster draws close.

"I've left three men on the Jackdaw," says Adé in greeting. "Cuddy, Donoghue and Paddy."

"You trust them?"

"I do not trust any of these men yet," he returns, "but I know where their loyalties lie. Do not fear, Captain Kenway. Your Jackdaw is in good hands."

Edward leads the way expertly through the dirty, sandy streets, paying no heed to the flies that swarm the homes. Amelie can't stop herself from sneering at the state of the island, at the men and women in their rags of clothing, at the stagger in their steps as they pass them by.

"Charming," she comments dryly, as a man ahead of them drinks heartily from a bottle of rum and promptly passes out.

"She's a little worse for wear," concedes Edward, "but all great governments start somewhere."

He leads the way towards a tavern named the Old Avery. The wood is weather-worn and grey, the stairs creak as they ascend them, but the music is jolly and the faces friendly (for now), so Amelie follows Edward with no small amount of wariness on her face.

"By God," she hears cried, "you're a sight for salty eyes! Come you in and 'ave a drink."

Amelie sees the navy blue first, the long jacket reminding her of a military garb, and the man standing before her is nothing short of a dark haired rogue. His wavy locks curl around the ears and his smile is friendly but barbed. His jaw is lined with thick sideburns, and as soon as Edward is close the man draws him into a rough hug full of laughs and claps on the shoulder.

"Morning all," greets Edward, as the other man from the beach approaches, a tankard in each hand.

"Ahoy Kenway," he says, handing one to Edward and scanning over the three of them curiously. "Who's this?"

"Adéwalé," introduces Edward, clapping his Quartermaster on the shoulder. "The Jackdaw's Quartermaster."

" _Jackdaw_?" repeats the gruffer one, wearing black and the tricorn hat. There's a beat of silence and an exchanged look between the two pirates, a huff of a wheezing laugh. "You named your brig after a poxy bird?"

Edward appears agitated but not angry. "Adé," he says, "these men are the better part of our growing confederacy here." He gestures to each in turn; the rogue in the military blue, "Ben Hornigold," the gruff pirate in black, "Ed Thatch," and towards a figure perched on a barrel near the bar, cradling a bottle of rum and barely casting them a glance, "and James Kidd."

Amelie's breath catches in her throat. "Kidd?" she repeats, louder than intended, and the young man's head snaps up, catching her eyes.

"Hold on now," says Edward, inserting himself in the conversation, trying to draw her to the side and into a private and whispered conversation, "you know –"

She ignores him, wrenching her arm free.

"Kidd?" Amelie repeats breathlessly, hardly believing what she's seeing. She pushes her way through the two pirates and towards him, meeting Kidd halfway. He engulfs her in a large hug that is everything like she remembers and everything she doesn't. She tries to recall their embraces in Tulum, quick and flighty, in passing and farewells, never as desperate or as relieved as this, and she doesn't remember James feeling as slender in her grasp as he does now.

She breathes him in, sea salt and blood and smoke, clutching at his back like he'll disappear from her sight at any minute.

"Christ, lass," murmurs James in her ear, and she hears his deep inhale as he breathes her in as she is him, "I thought you were dead."

"So did I," Amelie whispers.

"Better watch Kenway," she hears Ben Hornigold quipping, as she and James part once more and he leads her away from the others. "Or Kidd'll have your lass stolen out from under you."

"Fat chance of that," she hears Edward saying, a bite to his tone. "Don't go running off with her, Kidd," he hollers, "or I'll have your balls in a necklace."

"Aye, Kenway," returns Kidd, thrown over his shoulder uncaringly, "you're welcome t' try."

He leads her towards the barrel he'd been perched on moments before, and towards the balcony overlooking the dirty and dusty streets of Nassau. The wood of the bannister is rotting under her fingers, crawling with bugs and weather-worn like the rest of the tavern, but it doesn't snap with her weight when she leans on it.

"It's good to see you," Amelie admits after a moment's silence, reaching out for him. Her fingers brush the knuckles of his hand before taking it gently, squeezing it achingly in search of comfort she's needed in the last two months.

"It's good to see you too," he returns with a thin smile.

She dives into an explanation of the events that led her to Havana – of spilling her secrets to Walpole with a bottle on rum in hand, of growing close to the man, the guilt that ate at her when he turned on them and stole Esme's journal. She neglects to tell him about the mistakes she's made (one in particular, she thinks, that Kidd _definitely_ does not need to know about; she doesn't think she'll ever forget the way Walpole's hands felt on her skin and perhaps that is the price she has to pay) and he listens intently as her tale catches up to the present.

Kidd eyes her bare arms sourly. "Du Casse is a slippery bastard," he says with an angry scowl.

"You're telling me," she says. "Smug as fuck too."

His lips quirk but his eyes drift over her shoulder, to Edward and Thatch and Hornigold, standing with their drinks and barking their laughter, reminiscing about their privateering days. Amelie follows his gaze, glancing briefly over her shoulder at her Captain.

"Reminds me of someone," she muses aloud, accompanied by a grimace.

"He hasn't hurt ye, has he?" Kidd immediately asks.

"No," she says, after a pause. "I don't think he's the type."

Edward catches her looking and gives her a long, considering glance, his eyes shifting cautiously to Kidd and back again, a dark but unconcerned look sparkling in his sea-blues. Amelie thinks he wants to come over, to interrupt them, but Hornigold catches his arm and draws his attention, leaving them in peace for a few moments longer.

"And the Sage?"

Amelie peers confusedly at Kidd. "What about him?"

The assassin fixes his dark eyes on her. "Did you see him?"

Amelie frowns. "Not from up close," she reveals and, again, she glances over her shoulder. "But Edward did."

"Christ," breathes Kidd, his voice tinged with disbelief. "This is a right mess."

Amelie hums in agreement. "I'm sure the Mentor will want to hear all about it."

"He will," agrees Kidd, and then, almost apologetically, "but not from you."

She almost chokes. "Kidd, you can't be serious." She looks over her shoulder again, where Edward and Adéwalé still idle, drinking and laughing. "You can't leave me with them."

"I can't just whisk you away from him, lass," Kidd hisses. "I'd have every bloody pirate in Nassau after me!"

"But you said –"

"Thatch and Hornigold won't take my side over Kenway's," he interrupts briskly, "not when Edward's all but pissed on ye."

"I'm not his bloody _property_ –"

"Keep your voice down!"

"Aw, screw you, Kidd!" She storms past him and towards the stairs, rage burning bright like her hair and fury in her steps. She hears Edward holler her name, sounding almost like a warning, but her words are for Kidd. "I'd thought you of all people would want to help me."

"Kidd, what the hell have you done?" Edward shouts next, approaching them fast, Adé hot on his heels.

"Showed me his true colours," Amelie snaps.

And they're _black_ , she wants to add, black like the flags on the ships in the harbour, black like the leathers Thatch wears.

Black like a pirate.


	9. Grin and Bear It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie realises she _might_ have overreacted.

She meets Upton and Vance Travers entirely by accident.

Amelie has somehow managed to avoid Edward and Kidd for a couple of days when she bumps into the brothers, a mouldy loaf of bread in her hands and a suspicious glint in her eyes. Upton Travers eyes her up and down, lingering on the assassin's symbol on her sash, and under the shadow of his hood she finds an ally.

"Come," he says, with a wave of his hand and a glance at his brother. "We shall talk somewhere privately."

Their bureau reminds her of Rhona Dinsmore in Havana, a small and unassuming building of worn and weather-beaten wood, with windows streaked with dirt. She tries to recall if she's walked past it at all in the past few days but can't, as easily overlooked as it is. Their bureau is quiet and lonely, with very little activity and very little sign of any other assassins, and it suits Amelie just fine.

"What sort of trouble are you in?" asks Vance, setting a bowl of warm stew in front of her and standing to the side.

"No trouble," she says, dipping her spoon in and swirling it around the lumpy mess. "Just need a place to hide out for a while." She licks her lips. "Do you know if there's any way I can get off this island?"

"Plenty," says Upton with a nod. "Is there anywhere in particular you need to go?"

 _The future_ , she wants to say, but what comes out of her mouth, in a defeated whisper, is, "Tulum."

Between Edward Kenway and the West Indies Assassins, Amelie thinks she's better with the devil she knows. She doesn't want to stay there, in one place waiting for a woman she's sure probably doesn't even know she's here, but maybe she can convince Ah Tabai – _eventually,_ part of her whispers, but in equal measures another hisses, _doubtful_ – to let her leave the island and begin her search _properly_.

Upton's eyes are considering. "My brother and I run a smuggling operation. Perhaps there is a way we can help you."

As Assassin Mentors they are all but _obligated_ to help her. She nearly says so but she bites her tongue, careful not to bite the hand that feeds.

"I would appreciate that," she says instead.

* * *

She ruminates on her situation for a couple of days while Upton and Vance make the necessary arrangements. They tell her to keep her head down and stay in the bureau, convinced that she's in some kind of trouble despite her saying otherwise, and she's all too happy to listen.

But sitting, oftentimes alone, in the bureau only gives her cause to _think_ , cause to _consider_ , and only makes her realise what a fool she's being.

Kidd never meant to insult her, she knows now in the aftermath, in the silence between the angry words she'd thrown at him. His words were said wisely; Edward, and, she imagines, the other pirates in Nassau, do not know of Kidd's hidden allegiances to the Assassins. For Kidd to steal her away as she wanted, to return her to Tulum, would only create more problems than it solves.

Amelie sighs, twirling a curl of her hair around her finger. _I might have overreacted_ , she admits to herself, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

 _What a fool you are, Amelie Crawley_ , she hears said, the words an echo of a sentence she's never heard before but recognises. _A bloody fool_.

Esme always referred to Amelie's temper as the Crawley Curse and often said she was too quick to use it to justify her impetuous nature. She always said Amelie treaded a thin line between the tenants of the Creed – the Creed Amelie has grown up with and knows better than _anyone_ , _especially_ Esme – and that one day, the Crawley Curse would land her in hot water with the Mentors.

 _She doesn't get it_ , Amelie remembers telling Desmond, what feels like decades ago now. _She just... doesn't get it._

Esme is the first assassin in her family. Amelie has a legacy to protect.

Thinking of Esme reminds Amelie of Edward and the Jackdaw and the _Observatory_. It reminds her of the Temple in the Caribbean, of the glowing pedestal that sent her back here in the first place. It reminds her of the First Civ, the _Precursor Race_ Edward had called them, and the bargain she'd struck with the new Captain.

 _You help me locate the Observatory_ , he'd said, _and I'll see you returned to your 'assassin friends._ '

Amelie starts to wonder then if the Observatory _is_ her way home. If the First Civ have something do with it, with this treasure Captain Kenway is obsessed with, it's the only lead she has to get home, to get _Esme_. It could take years to find it, years she can spend with the Jackdaw searching for Esme while Edward searches for his treasure, years she could spend travelling the West Indies and searching for a sign of her lost friend rather than sitting on Tulum hidden away by the Assassins from the lingering threat of the Templars.

 _They're right to be wary_ , Amelie concedes, _the Templars very nearly got me._ That _wouldn't have been good for anyone_.

But that doesn't mean she's going to go back to hiding from them.

She's gone before the Travers brothers return to the bureau.

* * *

She finds Adé on the beach, standing with four or five men and talking with the Harbour Master about repairs to the Jackdaw.

"Quite the tizzy you've sent Captain Kenway into," he says in greeting, "disappearin' off the face of the Earth."

She shrugs, pushing off from the wall she's leaning against. "Do him good," she says, falling into step with him, "for his patience to be tested a little."

"I'm not sure the Captain sees it as such," returns the Quartermaster. "Four days."

"He'll get over it."

As soon as the Old Avery comes into sight, Amelie sees him. He stands beside Ben Hornigold and Ed Thatch, lifts his hand to grab Adé's attention, and freezes at the sight of her. Even from where she stands she sees the smirk on Hornigold's face, the sly movement of Thatch's lips as he teases.

Edward all but vaults down the stairs towards them, hand grasping Amelie's arm and drawing her away. She rolls her eyes but gives him this control, sighing when he releases her to pace ahead of her, feet pounding angrily into the sand.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't lock you in my cabin on the Jackdaw," he growls, pausing his pacing to glare at her.

Amelie shrugs. "You'd miss me too much."

He sighs, the noise full of frustration and anger. "We had a bargain, lass."

"That's why I'm here," she tells him, forcing herself to remain calm, forcing her voice to remain steady.

"Really?"

She nods wordlessly. Her answer appears to have surprised him into silence. He stares at her intently, searching for the lie he no doubt believes her to be spinning, and it's a long while before he appears satisfied.

"I'll help you find the Observatory," Amelie says, every word heavy as it leaves her mouth, "and you help me get home."

Edward's eyes are suspicious as the rove over her. Eventually, he spits on his palm and thrusts it towards her, ignoring the disgusted wrinkle of her nose.

"We do this properly this time," he tells her as she spits in her own palm and takes his hand. "Aye?"

She nods and wonders what Esme would say if she could see her now, striking a deal with a pirate like a _pirate_. Edward's hand is warm around hers, his eyes just as fiery as they had been when they'd landed on her next to his Quartermaster, and, strangely, her stomach flips with a strange sort of nerves.

The last time she'd felt like that –

Amelie's thoughts side-track quite violently when Edward's hand tightens on hers. It's the only warning she gets before he tugs her closer, chest to chest with their hands entwined between their bodies, his face millimetres from hers.

"No more disappearing acts," he says in a low voice.

Words fail her this close to him. She can see nothing but him, crowding into her personal space, can smell nothing but him, smoke and gunpowder and rum, like Kidd but so _different_. Her stomach flips strangely again as she strains to see something familiar in him, something to trust.

She strains to see an ounce of his descendant in him but can't.

"Alright," she manages to whisper, as a blush rises to her cheeks.

He's smirking when he releases her, smirking all the while as she follows him back to the tavern, and Amelie wipes her hand on her breeches and grins and bears it.

* * *

Edward doesn't let Kidd come near her and for that she is both insulted and grateful. Even if she understands Kidd's motives, she finds she can't quite forgive him yet. Just seeing his face reignites the rage she felt when he refused to help her, and no amount of doleful or regretful looks he sends her way will change that.

"Quite the argument you two seem to have had," Edward comments a week or so later, as around them the newly joined crew of the Jackdaw drink heartily.

She scowls into her tankard of rum. "Just turns out he's more your friend than mine."

"True," returns the Captain, as Seth and Donoghue slump into the seats opposite them. "Lads," Edward greets as he rises, sauntering to the bar for a refill.

Amelie's tankard remains untouched. If Edward were anyone else, she might have offered it.

"Ey," says Donoghue, reaching over to lightly nudge her shoulder. "Cheer up, sadsacks."

"Drink!" adds Seth cheerfully, with a wave of his hand that knocks Donoghue's tankard over and spills the liquid over his lap. "Whoops."

"'Whoops' is bloody right," snaps the Irishman with a scowl. "I wasn't finished with that."

"Obviously," says Amelie around a smile. "It was full."

"I'll get you another," offers Seth, staggering to his feet and entering the throng of pirates crowding the bar.

"Here." Amelie pushes forward the full tankard in front of her with a small smile. "Think you can down that before he comes back with another?"

Donoghue grabs the tankard and gives her a disbelieving look. "I'm Irish."

Amelie concedes his point with a wordless and considering nod. _Of course_ , she thinks, as the beginnings of a laugh start to bubble up in her throat. Donoghue attacks the drink with fervour, gulping greedily.

"I'll even let you pretend you drank it," he says with a wink. "Ol' Cap'n Kenway won't suspect a thing."

 _He will when he sees you're rat-arsed and I'm sober_ , she thinks but she says, "I appreciate that," and laughs.

A reply is on Donoghue's lips when a body slumps into the chair Edward vacated. She doesn't expect anyone else; there's a greeting quip on her lips and the beginnings of a smirk.

Ben Hornigold turns the chair and leans on the old table with his elbow, dark eyes surveying her curiously while a flirtatious smirk plays on his lips. Donoghue falls silent, finding his tankard suddenly very interesting, and at the bar Edward is roped into a conversation with Kidd and Thatch, oblivious to the dealings at the table.

"Captain Benjamin Hornigold of the _Benjamin_ ," introduces the dark haired rogue. Her lips quirk at the name of his ship; it says a lot, she thinks, that Captain Hornigold named his ship after himself.

 _Maybe he's compensating for something_.

"Amelie Crawley," she says, shaking the hand he offers. His grip is firm and his hands calloused like Edward's and Kidd's, years of experience and sailing telling stories to her. "No fancy titles for me, I'm afraid."

Ben lifts her hand to his lips and plants a kiss on her knuckles. "I'm sure ye don't need," he says in a honeyed voice, the light of the tavern dancing in his eyes.

He hasn't released her hand.

"Right!" cries Seth, throwing himself onto the bench at their table. He sets another two tankards on the table, full to the brim and spilling down the sides, and Donoghue reaches for his shoulder and gathers the younger man's shirt in his fist.

"C'mon," he grumbles, shooting Amelie a look she finds quizzical.

"But I just –"

They disappear into the throng of drunken pirates, leaving Amelie and Captain Hornigold alone at the table. The Captain reaches for the tankards and slides one in her direction. She declines with a raised hand and a soft smile.

"Not the stomach for it?"

Mildly peeved at his observation, she says, "I make mistakes when I have a few drinks in me."

"Some mistakes are good ones," says Hornigold with a wry grin.

"Not in my experience."

Amelie can't imagine getting drunk again, especially with a face so unfamiliar to her as Ben Hornigold's. She'd thought she'd trusted Duncan Walpole and the man had used her loose lipped drunken ramblings to sell her out to the Templars.

"So a Crawley, eh?" He says her name oddly, his accent morphing her name into _Crawr-ley_. "Kenway's bagged himself quite the treat."

His familiarity with her name raises red flags; she has to be careful, she realises, careful with her actions and words. She watches Hornigold drink from the tankard, the muscles in his throat contracting and relaxing as he swallows, and tells herself she has nothing to worry about from this man.

Edward needs her alive and Ben Hornigold is his friend – he wouldn't jeopardise his Edward's interests.

"What makes you think he's bagged me?" she hears herself asking, reaching for the spare tankard cradling it in her hands. "Maybe I'm exactly where I want to be."

"And where would that be?" There's a quirk to his lips and a sparkle to his eyes still.

"Ben," says Edward, slapping him none too lightly on the shoulder. "That's enough of that."

"Feelin' threatened, Kenway?" quips Ben in return, getting to his feet and smirking. "Worried you can't satisfy her the way I could?"

"I'd wager Amelie has better things to be doing than playing pantsy with you, Ben," retorts Edward waspishly and Ben Hornigold saunters off with a barked laugh and a swirl of his coat-tails. Edward settles on the bench beside her again, grumbling under his breath.

"I was enjoying myself, y'know," she mutters, sniffing cautiously at the tankard in her hands. She wrinkles her nose in disgust a moment later.

"I'm sure you were," says Edward as Seth and Donoghue slink back into their seats. "I think I know you well enough to know where that conversation might have been headed."

Amelie shrugs and forces herself to drink instead of argue with him.


	10. The Black Flag (Pt. I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben Hornigold teaches Edward the art of plundering and Amelie wrestles with the Creed.

"Crawley," muses Thatch one day, fixing her with a curious stare. "You're not by chance related to Jeremiah Crawley?"

Amelie's heart skips a beat. "Distantly," she answers the pirate, with a thin smile.

She eyes Thatch in return, knowing she's heard the name somewhere but unable to place it. Thick black hair and dark stubble lining his jaw, he doesn't look like someone worth remembering, wearing dark leathers and a tricorn hat. He nurses a tankard in one hand and strokes at the stubble on his chin with the other pensively.

Kidd loiters by the bar with his back to them, engaged in conversation with the bartender while Edward and Ben chat nearby, reaching for the ale placed before them. Around her are new crewmembers of the Jackdaw, hanging on to Adé's every word as he throws orders at them, and the tavern is alive with singing and music.

They'll be sailing soon, she's been told, with Hornigold at Edward's side to teach him the ways of piracy. She'll be with them, learning with Edward and Adé and the crew, finding her feet and finding her place and keeping her eyes open for signs.

Edward hands her a tankard of rum, the liquid sloshing over the rim, and she sets it on the balcony as she watches him return to the bar, still deep in conversation with Thatch and Ben. She subtly slides the metal cup across the wood towards Donoghue, always nearby. He gladly steals it from her side and when she glances at him seconds later, he's downed almost half of it.

"Amelie."

" _Pour l'amour de_...*1"

Kidd reaches for her arm as she turns to walk away, eyes flitting to Donoghue and Seth and nearly begging for their intervention but a wave from the assassin at her back has them sitting again, watching warily. She notices Seth's eyes darting towards Edward at the bar but the Captain has yet to glance up from his mentor.

"Upton told me you tried to leave Nassau," Kidd says in a low voice, his eyes serious. "Said ye wanted back t' Tulum."

 _Of course he did_ , she nearly shoots at him, _of course he told you_.

"Of course I did," she says instead, glowering.

"What made ye come back?"

She ducks her head and stares at the dirty wood at her feet, stained with rum and ale and blood. She thinks she can hear Esme in her head, encouraging her to trust him, to trust him because he's an _assassin_ , an ally. Esme's always been naïve, thinking that she can trust anyone because of the symbol they were on their coat or belt.

Amelie knows better.

She shrugs and swallows and finally lifts her head to meet his eyes.

"You know why," she tells him with a grimace. She won't apologise for her overreaction, she refuses to, but it doesn't make it any easier to act calm around the most recent cause of her anger.

"Ye saw sense then?" quips the assassin, cocking his head and leaning in closer. "Ye see that this is where we need ye?"

"Need me for what?"

"Now, Kidd," a voice says from over his shoulder and Amelie peers over into the thundery gaze of Ed Thatch. "Ye'd best make yerself scarce, before Kenway sees ye."

"Aye, aye," throws Kidd over his shoulder.

"Lovely," Amelie mutters, as Kidd leans away, his eyes promising an end to their conversation later. "He's pissed on me, hasn't he?"

Ed Thatch barks a laugh, leaning against the bannister at her side and watching Kidd slink back to the bar. He takes a long, sloppy glug of the tankard in his hand and Amelie thinks then that the stories she's heard about pirates are true – they drink and plunder and drink some more. Perhaps they need it for courage, she thinks wryly, so they can go through with their attacks on vessels.

"Aye, near enough," Thatch tells her, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Idle threats here and there. He's quite taken with ye."

"I don't know what you mean," she throws back, lifting her chin and finding Edward watching her curiously, eyes darting over Thatch and back to her. He frowns, a silent question she answers with a shrug. He's not taken with her, despite what the other pirates here believe; they're helping each other, an arrangement made once in his cabin and again in the dirty street five minutes away.

"I'm sure you don't," says Thatch. He shifts his attention to Edward and Ben as they approach while Amelie turns her back and watches the sea on the horizon, the ships sailing into Nassau and its promises.

"Have you heard of a place called the Observatory?" she hears Edward ask aloud, directed at the men near them. She rolls her eyes on instinct, a quip on her lips silenced by Kidd joining the conversation before she can.

"Aye," he says and Amelie straightens and turns her attention to them, leaning on the balcony bannister at her back and wondering what his game is. "It's an old legend – like El Dorado or the Fountain of Youth."

Amelie's scoff is largely ignored, save for an unimpressed glare shot at her by Edward and a smug grin sent her way by Ben. She shrugs, wishing she hadn't given away her tankard so she might hide her satisfied smile behind its rim.

"What have you heard?" Edward asks and she can't stop herself.

"Yes, Kidd," she says, "what _have_ you heard?"

Conversations in the hold of the Gipsy come to her, about the race for the Observatory and the Sage; she recalls Kidd asking her if she saw his face, his interest when she told him Edward _had_. She can't decide if Kidd is playing a game or fishing for information and she regrets arguing with him and being unable to ask him these questions herself.

"It's meant t' be a temple or a tomb," reveals Kidd dismissively, "hiding a treasure of some kind."

Edward's interest is immediately grabbed. He reaches into his coat and brandishes a folded piece of parchment, handing it to Kidd with some kind of exhilaration crossing his features. Amelie steps closer as Kidd unfolds the small paper and she eyes the scribbles and diagrams with a frown. Two circles drawn side by side, with a sketch of some kind of mechanism in its centre.

Amelie doesn't voice it aloud but it looks more like a machine to her than a treasure – a machine that could get her _home_.

"Ah, rot," Thatch snipes, "it's fairy-tales to gold ye prefer, is it?"

Amelie wrinkles her nose at the diagrams. "Yes," she mutters blandly. "What a treasure that appears to be."

"It's worth more than gold, Thatch," Edward insists, as Kidd eyes Amelie curiously, cocking his head. Edward faces Thatch determinedly, facing off against the other Captain as Amelie continues to ponder the strange enigma that is the Observatory. "Ten-thousand times above than what we could pull off any Spanish ship."

"Robbing the King to pay 'is paupers is how we earn our keep here, lad," says Ben, stepping in before Edward can get too riled up. He nods his head towards the parchment Kidd still holds. "That ain't a fortune, it's a fantasy."

Edward turns away with a sour look, grasping the pilfered diagrams from Kidd's hand when he holds them to him. Kidd claps him on the arm and returns to the bar while Edward meets her eyes and cocks his head towards a quiet area of the tavern. She follows wordlessly and takes the seat opposite him when he gestures.

"And what say you?" he asks her quietly, leaning his elbows on the table and staring at her.

Amelie shrugs. "It doesn't seem like much of a treasure." She pauses and adds, with a smirk, "Captain."

He leans back with a satisfied smile. "Now there's a word I'll never tire of hearing from your lips."

She rolls her eyes. "I'll uphold my end of the bargain, Kenway, _ne vous inquiétez pas à ce sujet_.*2"

Edward stares at her blankly. "Eh?"

Amelie sighs.

* * *

The Benjamin is a small schooner barely half the size of the Jackdaw, a fact that amuses Edward to no end. He walks smugly to where Ben and Thatch wait for them, lounging on the beach and smoking their pipes, and Amelie really wishes men weren't so competitive.

 _Not everything is a dick measuring contest_ , she wants to say before they can start, but the amused glint in Thatch's eye as Ben greets them halts her before she can.

"Not a bad looking tinderbox ye got there," Ben greets, hooking his pipe in his mouth. Amelie wrinkles her nose at the smell – it reminds her of Esme's brief stint with smoking; the way the nicotine used to stink up her clothes. She could always be smelled before she was seen and she was always fiddling with one of those little white sticks.

"You sound a bit _green_ , Hornigold," quips Edward, standing with his hands on his hips and surveying the Jackdaw proudly. "Is it envy? Because mine's bigger than yours?"

Amelie groans, and scoffs, "Men."

"No, I reckon it's this Jamaican funk," says Captain Hornigold, getting slowly to his feet and smacking his pipe against the nearby longboat, emptying the contents on the sand. "I prefer the Spanish stuff." He stands beside Edward, overlooking the two ships docked, and Amelie can see the men on the Jackdaw, hauling at the rigging and clambering up the masts, checking the sails.

"So," starts Ben, "ye've got yerself a fancy brig now. Fine." He pauses and turns to Edward determinedly, poking him in the chest with his pipe to drive his point home. "Well I'm gonna teach ye how t' sail her right – and how t' take a prize the _proper_ way."

Amelie wasn't even aware there was a wrong way to take a prize.

Edward nods his assent and nods his head to her, a silent order that she follows, trailing behind him a few steps and grasping the other side of the longboat to dislodge it from the sand.

"Thatch," Ben calls over his shoulder, "we'll catch you up at the old fishing village."

"Aye," returns the other pirate, already sauntering away from them.

She sees the new figurehead first, a carved bird in flight like the ship's namesake, and keeps any snarky comments to herself until she can get Edward alone. For all she wants to tease him about it, she finds the carving somehow fits, and soon forgets about it entirely as hands reach down to help her onto the deck. Unfamiliar faces stare back at her until she finds Donoghue and Seth and Cuddy, staring at Nassau like they might not see it again for a while.

Adé inclines his head to her as she takes her place to the left of the helm, waiting silently for Edward to join them. Ben is the hold-up, it seems, staring up towards the crow's nest and along the deck at the new cannons, surveying everything with a critical eye she can't imagine Edward being pleased about.

"Where's your helmsman, Kenway?" He asks as they ascend the stairs, though his eyes drift over the large, polished wheel towards Amelie, leaning on the bannister and watching the crew. She doesn't like the evils she getting from some of the new faces, doesn't like the distrust they eye her with.

 _I was here when we stole this ship_ , she wants to scream at them, _I was here we sailed it through a hurricane and came out the other side. Where the hell were_ you?

She wants to demand their respect and trust, wants to feel every bit as part of this family they're trying to make as Edward and Adé.

Edward's hands fit around the spokes of the helm surely, like they belong there, and Ben steps between her and the Captain, the tails of his coat fluttering in the wind. She can't help it; seeing the two of them standing there, she thinks Ben is more the image of a Captain than Edward is, but pirate isn't a word she would associate with him.

"I take pride in piloting my own ships, Ben," says Edward, after his orders have been given and the sails have been unfurled. "It keeps me alert."

"Let's make some headway, shall we?" proposes Ben, an order veiled as a suggestion.

It's not until they've sailed a fair distance from Nassau that Edward pipes up, his words making him sound like an annoyed schoolboy. Amelie winds her green bandana into her hair, stroking it back from her face and securing it tightly; the idea of plundering ships sends an uneasy ripple through her.

 _Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent_ , she thinks, the first tenant of the Creed echoing inside her head. There's an anxious look on her face, she's sure, but no matter what she tries, she can't school it into an indifferent mask.

As an assassin, the Creed is her bible; she must abide by its tenants. Yet, even she knows, pirates were far from merciful in their takings and here she is, about to help undertake in one.

"I've no need for schooling," Edward's saying, sounding peeved. Amelie wants to pipe up that she _does_ – not in the art of killing, an act she has been performing since she knew how to hold a blade, but in the actions behind incapacitating a ship and boarding one. She wonders if she can do this, what her fellow assassins might think of her if she goes ahead with it.

 _They won't know_ , she tells herself. _The Assassins here are_ not _my brethren. My brethren haven't been born yet_.

She must survive. She must stay alive.

"How many prizes did we take together as privateers?" Edward asks, still insisting his capabilities.

Ben stands with his arms folded across his chest, the bobbing and rocking of the ship under his feet not causing him any trouble. The wind ruffles his dark hair, brushes it across his eyes, but he doesn't appear bothered by it at all.

He huffs a laugh, hardly seeming fazed by Edward's irritation. "There's a chasm of difference between joining a raid and captaining one." He turns his attention to the crew, and hollers, "We're looking out for merchants, boys, them that's fat with cargo!"

Amelie stomach churns worse than before; merchants are hardly going to be able to defend themselves against such a heavily weaponised brig like the Jackdaw, especially not unprepared and caught off guard as they will be. _Innocents_ ; the word spirals and bounces in her head. Just her being a part of a pirate crew goes against everything she's been taught to believe from birth.

"You're looking queasy," Ben comments, too close to her ear for her liking. There's a smirk on his lips and a glint in his eyes. "As green to this as Kenway is, eh?"

"To killing, no," she hears herself saying, every word like lead in her mouth. "To killing innocents, yes."

Ben huffs another laugh, clearly delighted with this new information. "Just where did ye pick this one up, Kenway?"

"Never you mind that, Ben," is the curt answer, as Edward's brow furrows in concentration. Adé lifts the spyglass to his eye at a small word from Edward but the Quartermaster shakes his head after a minute of terse silence.

"Ye've staked yer claim well and loud, Kenway," Ben says and Amelie bristles at the words, "ye've nothin' t' fear." His smirk turns dirty. "If I steal yer lass away, it's because she wants it, don't ye doubt that."

"Honestly," Amelie snaps, turning her back on the two of them, "can't you men _ever_ keep it in your pants?"

They're sailing for another good hour and a half before a shout spreads through the crew from the bow of the ship. Adé hands Edward the spyglass, a frown etched onto his hard face as he peers at the small ship leagues away from them.

"The _Santa Monica_ ," Edward murmurs, lifting the spyglass to his eye once more. "There's a prize worth taking."

"Good," Ben says, "take us in close."

Edward complies, barking his orders to the crew and spinning the helm quickly to the right. The closer they get to the unsuspecting schooner, the more Amelie realises that she's still no weapons; her bow remains in Edward's cabin, her cutlass and hidden blades, she believes, still in the presence of Julien du Casse.

She clears her throat. "Captain," she starts cautiously, "at the risk of sounding too forward; I'm going to need a weapon."

"Fat chance of that, lass," Edward scoffs, as Ben looks mildly between the two them. "You'll stab me in the back the first chance you get."

"Oh, for the love of –" she cuts herself off, forces herself to be polite. "The deal we made isn't good enough for you, is it?" _Your crew would kill me if I tried, moron_. _Not to mention the pirate captain standing_ directly _to my right!_

"What's the problem, Kenway?" Ben cuts in, thick brows risen in confusion. "Give the lass a cutlass, I say."

"My bow would be even better," she pipes up with a hopeful smile.

"The problem, Ben," Edward says through gritted teeth, "is the information she holds is too valuable to be lost at the end of a blade."

"You really doubt my skills _that_ much?" Amelie fires at him, offended.

"What skills are these?" returns Captain Kenway, staring her down. "The same skills that threw you into a fight with me knowing you'd lose?"

"If you had been the man I _wanted_ , I wouldn't have _lost_ –"

"Oi, oi," Ben says loudly, and Amelie realises heads have turned towards them, puzzled and curious expressions painted across faces along the deck. "It's settled then."

"Aye," Edward snaps before Amelie can protest. "It is." After a pause in which Amelie huffs quietly, he adds, his threat sharp, "You're welcome to stay in the hold, lass, if you'd rather, though the cells there are not as comfortable as you'd be if I were in a good mood."

"I'll stay here," she mutters in defeat, folding her arms across her chest and catching Donoghue's eyes. He clutches to the rigging at his left, the lookout nearest to her, teetering on the edge of the ship but seeming fully content with where he is. She nods to him in reassurance but can't find a smile.

"Aye," says Edward. "You will."

She realises dully, as Ben continues his wise words, that she's gotten exactly what she wanted; she won't be breaking any tenants of the Creed, remaining here on the ship as she is. Somehow the thought does nothing to content her, and she remains riled up even as they draw closer to the small ship.

"After ye subdue a prize," Ben says, "project authority and demand respect that ye would never give yerself. This weaves a spell over soft minds, for yer victims must always have in the back of their minds the uneasy idea that ye might snap at any given moment and un-seam them from prick to sternum." The Jackdaw draws closer to the Santa Monica and Ben adds, "Fire what cannons ye will and land a few strikes if ye must but for god's sake _don't sink her_. It's no fun fishing cargo out of the sea." He pauses and adds, a little quieter, almost considering, "Although it _can_ be done."

"Man the cannons," Adé bellows but it's unnecessary; the men are already in place, watching the ever approaching and unsuspecting _Santa Monica_.

 _Poor sods_ , Amelie thinks, biting her lip, _in the wrong place at the wrong time_.

"Cannons ready!" shouts a hard voice, the accent unfamiliar to her.

There's a few beats of silence as the men wait for Edward's word, itchy fingers and expectant looks, and Ben adjusts his stance, crossing his arms again while his expression remains carefully neutral. All eyes are on Edward, waiting, waiting...

" _Fire_!"

Amelie feels the explosions in her chest and she can't help but jump, prepared for the order but unprepared for the brutal sound of it being carried out. Smoke rises from the fired cannons, defiling the air, and a cheer ripples through the crew once more, excited and thrilled with the results of their first catch.

Ben nods his approval as the crew fires again, cannons soaring through the air and ripping through the _Santa Monica_ like paper. Amelie can see the crew on the deck, scattering and terrified, struggling to return fire but without the wherewithal to do so. They return fire with pistols that don't reach the distance and Amelie finds herself eyeing Edward's cutlasses and wondering if he'd notice her lifting one.

"She's disabled now," Ben says loudly, over the cannon fire and shouts of the crew. Adé shouts to them and the cannons stop, all eyes on the _Santa Monica_ , listing in the water, masts crumbling and fires along her deck. "And taking on a decent amount of water. Keep your cannons quiet and take care not to sink her."

Donoghue hops off his perch and accepts the cutlass handed to him by Seth; in his other hand, Seth holds a dirk, and there are two pistols across his chest. A brief scan of the crew shows them all similarly outfitted.

All except her.

 _This is what you wanted_ , she tells herself, _live by the creed_.

"Ho, ho," Ben says gleefully, as Edward draws the Jackdaw close to the _Santa Monica_ , and Amelie's not sure she likes the change in his voice, the change in his demeanour. He's reaching for his own cutlass, checking the bullet and gunpowder in his pistol. "She's dead in the water." He nudges Edward with his elbow, his grin dark. "Steer up alongside her."

"Remember what I said, lass," Edward says through gritted teeth, his eyes shifting from the _Santa Monica_ momentarily.

"I _am_ ," she bites back, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, it's like you think I'm going to _throw_ myself on somebody's blade just to get away from you."

Whatever retort Edward has is interrupted by Ben hollering to the crew, "Alright lads, grappling hooks away!" and leading the Captain away from her, striding towards the crew and advising Edward ever still. Adé takes his place at the helm while the Captain strolls through the crew, commanding his respect like Ben taught him while listening intently to every word Captain Hornigold speaks. There's a considering look in the Quartermaster's eyes as he looks her over, a look Amelie's getting used to seeing from the man, before he reaches for the deck at his feet and reveals a cutlass, hidden amongst the bundles of rope where he stands.

"Here," he says, handing her the blade with a small, sly grin. "Captain Kenway and I agree on this at least: you are an asset _alive_."

"Thank you, Quartermaster," Amelie returns, securing the belt around her waist, feeling grateful for the reassuring weight of a blade at her side.

"Do not think this an invitation to join the boarding," Adé tells her seriously. "It is only a safeguard, should the worst happen."

Amelie nods and looks across to the _Santa Monica_ , to the merchants in their yellow coats – Spaniards, she realises – and even from this distance, she can see clearly the terror on their faces as the crew of the Jackdaw begin to board. Many are on their knees before boots hit the deck, hands over their heads pleading for mercy, while others lift their cutlasses and meet the pirates with a clashing of blades.

It's over swifter than Amelie anticipates; Edward has barely stepped foot on the deck of the _Santa Monica_ before men have been struck down and there are none left to oppose. Amelie's not sure how she feels about that; bitter, because she's missed the opportunity to see if someone can strike down the man she couldn't? Or relieved, because there will be very little innocent blood shed?

She edges closer to hear what's said as the Spanish merchants are corralled together and herded into a straight line, hands bound behind their backs and forced to their knees. Edward stands back and gives Ben the honours, his mentor teaching him ever still.

" _Que tengo buen días señores_ ," calls Ben smugly, and the Spanish from his lips reminds Amelie of Darío, her assassin ally whom she hasn't seen since Havana, diving into the midst of her fight with Edward and telling her to run. She shakes her head to clear her mind of those thoughts – he's _alive_ , she tells herself calmly, he's _alive_. "I am Captain Hornigold and this –" Ben waves his sword toward the crew of the Jackdaw and Edward, standing at his back and watching him weave his spell "- is my crew. We're sailors, like yourselves but _quite_ unalike in our purpose for we intend to take _all_ that you own." He's strolled the length of the ship, confidently, arrogantly, grinning all the while at the terrified expressions on the merchant's faces and Amelie hears herself scoffing in disgust.

"Something displeases you?" asks Adé, coming to stand at her side with one hand on his cutlass.

"The sheer arrogance of him," Amelie answers.

"He lives up to his words," returns the Quartermaster. "Those men are quite afraid of him."

Her attention is drawn back to the ship by Edward calling her name, by Ben loudly asking if anyone speaks English, and she leans forward curiously as Edward crosses the merchant ship to get closer to her, peering up to the Jackdaw from the lower deck of the sinking _Santa Monica_.

"You're French, aye?" Edward asks, one hand on the side of the _Santa Monica_ as he speaks to her in a low voice.

Amelie rolls her eyes and throws back through gritted teeth, "French and Spanish are not interchangeable, _Captain_."

"Tell your friends we're stealing your goods," Ben starts loudly, advancing on a kneeling Spaniard as Edward turns and watches, lips quirked in amusement, "and we won't hurt nobody if everyone stays as still as a sandbar. You got that?"

Amelie can't help it. She starts to laugh.

"Uh..." murmurs the little merchant, sweating heavily and quite pale in the face of the irritated pirate. "Please to repeat?"

"Aw, _for fuck's sake_. Lock 'em in the hold - and take everything that isn't nailed down!"

Amelie can't smother her laughter quick enough, still cackling as Edward meets Ben's eyes, his hands on his hips and eyes twinkling. Ben shoots Edward a look with a gesture of _c'est la vie_ as he passes.

In her laughter and good mood, Amelie forgets for a moment that the _Santa Monica_ is sinking and those poor men probably aren't going to make it out alive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – For the love of...
> 
> *2 – don't worry about that.


	11. The Black Flag (Pt. II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie drinks away her woes and Edward grants her a modicum of trust.

"A good take today, Kenway," Ben muses aloud later, when the ship is close to bursting with stolen cargo and Edward's grinning from ear to ear, "half-a-dozen scores of that size and ye'll be set for a year." He joins Amelie by the bannister, standing so close to her their arms touch. "Now let's sell this cargo and fix up your Jackdaw with a few more trinkets."

He says Jackdaw like he says Crawley, with a _r_ fixed on the end – Jack _dawr_. It makes Amelie curious about where he's from.

"Sod a year," Edward says, "I'm looking for a prize that'll set me up for life." His voice turns wistful. "I'll be King of the West Indies then."

There's a bite to Ben's words that Amelie hasn't heard in any of their conversations so far. "We came to Nassau to get _away_ from the likes of Kings."

"Well..." Edward pauses and there's a strange look that passes over his face. "I'll be a man of property and promise anyway."

"Jaysus, let that dream go, lad," Ben snaps, "Nassau is the place to be, not England."

Amelie wonders just what's back in England that Edward feels he needs to get back to. She wonders if she can convince him to go early, to take her with him so she might search for Esme, see if her lost friend has made her way there.

"Do you ever dream of the big score?" Edward presses, eyes intently fixed on the horizon, hands holding the helm in a white-knuckled grip. "A ship so full of gold and silver, you just split it and sail home?"

"Sure," Ben answers and Amelie thinks herself that it would be nice, "but it's only a dream. Every man hopes to find a dozen chests of gold with no owners but they're as rare as an honest king."

They meet Thatch at Salt Key Bank, a small island with wooden shacks and platforms, built over the sea rather than on the sand. They dock for the night, drinking on the deck of the Jackdaw while Edward and Ben take care of other things, continuing lessons Amelie has no part in, but it suits her just fine.

Seth and Donoghue press rum into her hands – _stolen_ , her mind hisses, but it tastes so sweet and burns so good that she's forgotten after a bottle – and the rest of her night becomes a blur of jokes and laughter and crude language the likes of which she's never heard before. Most of the crew take quickly to her presence, hardly batting an eyelid at her, while others sneer and snarl.

She avoids them.

She's reminded of nights spent on the deck of a ship near Tulum, drinking rum with Kidd and the assassin crew. It reminds her of nights sneaking out with Esme, a bottle of vodka for their sorrows and a blanket around their shoulders as they stare at the stars. It reminds her of nights with a bottle of whiskey and Shaun for company, drowning their grief and saying nothing to each other.

"Where ya from, lass?" asks Cuddy the carpenter, perched atop one of the cannons and peering at her curiously.

Amelie shrugs. "All over, really," she admits with the drink, grinning bashfully. "I was born in Crawley, lived in London for a little bit and then _ma mère_ moved us to Paris..." _To the Assassin Brotherhood_. She repeats words she thinks she said a lifetime ago, tipsy on sweet drink and sitting beside a bonfire. " _Ma mère_ never liked to stay in one place for too long."

She was always so wary of everything and everyone, Amelie recalls silently, fiddling with the bottle in her hand and watching the liquid inside slosh about. She was never comfortable unless it was with someone she trusted; Amelie can't remember her mother ever trusting _anyone_.

"How did ya wind up on that galleon with the fleet then?" asks Seth with a frown, picking free a fresh bottle of rum from the crate between his legs.

"A mistake," Amelie tells them. She takes a drink and savours the burn, trying to forget Hanna's dark hair on the sandy ground, blood pooling below her body, and Val with an axe buried in his chest.

"And the Captain?" quizzes Donoghue. There's a suggestive smile on his lips and a glint in his eyes.

"She's probably nothin' more than a bed-warmer for 'im," says another voice, growly and angry. Amelie catches sight of a large and burly man in the back of their small crowd, glowering fiercely and turning his back on them. "One of his favourite whores."

Amelie rolls her eyes and deadpans, "I tried to kill him."

Seth chuckles and Paddy barks a laugh, reaching for rum and joining their party. None of them believe her, she realises; they think she's joking. She wonders if they believe that man about her being Edward's whore, wonders if that's all she'll be seen as while she's here.

"Don't listen to that dog booby," says Seth around his laughter, nudging her in the side and passing her another bottle. "Donny and I know you belong here." He tries to take a drink and misses his mouth, spilling the amber liquid down his front and in his lap. "I owe ya my life!"

"Aye," says Donoghue, "for whatever little amount it's worth."

"Aye, lass," pipes up Cuddy, leaning forward to ruffle her hair. It makes her feel like a child again, reminds her of older assassins in bureaus around the world who used to tease and train her when she was barely old enough to hold a blade. "You're one of the first – no man on this ship will be able to take that from ye."

A chorus of 'aye' rises around her, warming her heart. Her cheeks are flushed pink as hands clap her on the back and nudge her sides, and Amelie wonders if it's really such a bad thing that she's here.

* * *

Amelie drinks rum like water after that, drinks and drinks until the world spins and she can hardly stand. She's humming to herself, that one song from _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang_ , and around her, sprawled along the deck, are her drinking buddies, passed out before they could reach the crew's quarters below deck.

There's a cannon at her back and a bottle still in her hand and despite being the last one up she doesn't feel alone in the slightest.

Drinking with the crew of the Jackdaw, she finds, is different than how it was when she drank alone in her hut on Tulum, drowning her loneliness in sweetness. It's different, she thinks, because the crew want to get to know her but not in the way Walpole did – they ask about her life out of curiosity because she's one of them now – and being the last one up makes this so different from being alone on an island with assassins.

 _You drink like a fish, Amelie Crawley_ , Rebecca used to laugh at her.

 _Runs in the family_ , Amelie always replied. She doesn't drink as much as her great-something grandmother used to in her prime but Amelie knows that she doesn't drink lightly when she gets going. It's ten bottles or none at all; one doesn't do enough.

"Christ," she hears breathed as boots hit the deck. "What the hell happened here?"

"Drunk as Davy's sow, Captain," answers another voice, harder than the first, but he sounds amused at least. "Even your lass."

She's still humming as boots come closer, stepping over sprawled bodies until they're in front of her. She pauses her tune to peer up at him, staring down at her with an amused glint in his eyes, and waves half-heartedly with the hand that's holding the bottle.

"Captain," she slurs, with a lop-sided grin.

"Lass," returns Edward Kenway, wrestling the bottle from her hand. "I think you've had enough."

"Probably," she agrees, handing the bottle over freely.

Edward surveys the passed out crew with a frown and a sigh and looks over his shoulder at his Quartermaster. Something is said between the two of them, a laugh is shared, and Edward Kenway's sea-blues find her slouched body again, sparkling with amusement.

Amelie grins drunkenly. "You're really pretty, y'know?"

"Aye, lass," says Captain Kenway, thrown over his shoulder in parting. She hears the doors to the Captain's Cabin creaking open. "I know."

* * *

There's a curl to Benjamin Hornigold's lip interchanged with a disappointed frown at intervals the next afternoon but Edward is in high spirits when Amelie approaches from below deck, not quite staggering anymore but rubbing her temples to ward off the throbbing headache she's woken with.

"Captain," she greets wearily, coming to stand by his side. He's peering up at something through the sails and masts, a fond smile on his face. She follows his gaze and murmurs, "Oh."

She sees black, Edward's new flag fluttering in the wind. There's a single skull sewn in its centre, the kind of white that only comes from its first outing. She wonders how long it will stay that white.

"Because that's not clichéd or anything," she mutters, turning away and standing near the bannister. Her head is still pounding, worse with the shouts and yells of the crew readying the Jackdaw to set sail, and Edward claps her on the shoulder as he takes the helm.

"And how is Miss Amelie Crawley this fine afternoon?" he asks with a knowing grin.

"Could be better," she admits, dropping her hands and laying them on the bannister, keeping herself upright as Edward shouts for the crew to loose the sails. "But I've been worse too."

"Aye, lass," agrees Edward jollily, as Ben starts to approach through the crew. "You were three sheets to the wind when Adé and I found ya."

 _That's embarrassing_ , Amelie thinks, recalling blurrily memories of the night previous, of slurred words said around a drunken smile. She groans and rubs at her temples.

"I'm never drinking again," she mutters.

"Don't say that," muses Edward with a laugh. "You seem quite the happy type when you've a stomach of rum." He pauses, almost appearing to consider his next words. "I think you'd be fine company to rest with after a long day."

Amelie thinks it might be the closest thing to a compliment she's going to get from the man.

She grins wryly. "Next time, Captain Kenway," she tells him softly. "Maybe then you can see for yourself if I'm 'fine company.'"

"Aye, lass," he returns, just as softly. "Maybe."

On his right, Amelie sees Adé smirk. Amelie turns her gaze away as Ben rounds the stairs and strides to the helm. She doesn't want to ruin the small peace she and Edward seem to have cultivated by telling the man that she doubts she and he will ever sit and share a drink. He is her Captain and she is unwilling informant; he is her only hope of finding Esme and a way home.

They mean nothing else to one another.

"Mornin' all," greets Ben Hornigold. He nods to each of them in turn. "Fine day for huntin', Captain Kenway. Let's make some headway."

Edward nods once wordlessly, though Amelie thinks he appears agitated by Ben's continued lessons. Thoughts of the Creed pick at her still, worries that she's breaking its tenants just by being on this ship, and Amelie thinks that no amount of rum will ever make her a pirate.

They've left the fishing village's bay when Ben speaks up again.

"As you've likely seen, the number of merchants roving these wa _r_ ters is three-score the number of military ships."

"Aye," agrees Edward. "Easy purchase but in small doses."

"Right," returns Ben. "So to lure the navy out of hiding, it's best to cau _r_ se a bit of _mischief_."

Edward nods his understanding. "Catch a few small fish to attract the big ones."

"That's right. So plunder and pillage as you see fit, Captain Kenway."

Amelie's stomach turns. Adéwalé catches her eye with a frown but she wisely keeps her mouth shut.

* * *

Their days are spent plundering and their nights are spent drinking.

Amelie's reminded of the early days of working with Rebecca and Shaun, of rare nights where there was no threat of imminent invasion by Abstergo agents. She's reminded of late night talks with Desmond, of the dark circles around his eyes and the fatigue that followed him like a ghost. She's reminded of arguments with Lucy, of shouting matches that she never won because Desmond always insisted he was fine, that he could keep going.

She nurses a half-empty bottle of rum and idles near the helm, keeping Adé company while Edward shares a few with his crew. The Captain has shed his coat and weapons and Amelie's strangely enamoured with the way the wind ruffles the baggy sleeves of his shirt, with the way it musses his golden blonde hair. She sees faint outlines of tattoos through his shirt; black lines along his back and arms and shoulders. She wants to trace them with gentle fingers, wants to ask for their stories; she imagines a quiet night in his cabin, rum on their lips and lust in their –

Amelie blinks and swallows, turning her eyes away from the Captain, away from the odd turn her thoughts have taken. She glowers at the bottle in her hand – _this is why I don't drink_ , she nearly says, recalling a drunken mistake months ago, recalling a night years ago she barely remembers.

Edward's eyes seem to sparkle with his joy and the crew hangs onto his every word while he recounts tales of his privateering days, tales of his early pirating days with Thatch and Hornigold.

She takes a long swig of rum as Edward's Mentor himself comes to stand near her, holding his own bottle of rum and leaning on the bannister like a man fully at ease.

"For all yer bickerin'," muses Ben, drawing her eyes, "ye seem oddly fond of our Captain Kenway."

" _Fond_ is not the word I'd use," Amelie says.

Ben cocks his head, considering, and says, "Well, if this ye being _not fond_ , I'd pay good coin to see ye _actually_ fond."

Amelie takes another drink and smirks, turning her full attention to Captain Hornigold, bolder with the drink in her stomach. "I'm sure you would."

Esme would be laughing at her if she were here, Amelie thinks, laughing until she couldn't breathe. Esme could never flirt to save her life, so awkward and nervous whenever anyone showed any interest, and left the deceptions to Amelie whenever they were called for. But this isn't called for, Amelie thinks, she gains nothing from this, nothing but satisfaction from knowing that she's still wanted, even 200 years in the past.

Ben huffs a laugh at her words.

"Careful," he warns softly. "Ye'll get yerself a reputation ta _r_ lkin _'_ like that."

"Let them talk," she replies dismissively. She takes another drink. When she fixes her eyes on him again, they're hooded with her desire. "We could _give_ them something to talk about, though."

Ben's thick eyebrows rise in surprise. He blinks and finally grins. "Aye, lass?"

Her shrug is one-shouldered, the only response. Ben's eyes flit towards Edward, towards the crew crowded around him and laughing jollily. Amelie can feel Adé's eyes on her back, burning her skin.

Her voice is a whisper, said so close to Ben that she can almost taste the rum on his lips, can smell it on their breaths.  "Well, Captain Hornigold?" She reaches for his hand, feeling the callouses and scars.

She won't admit to anyone that she's imagining that this is how Edward's hands probably feel too. She won't admit to anyone that _that_ thought leads her down other, darker avenues.

"Captain Kenway!" hollers Adéwalé suddenly, breaking the spell and Amelie throws herself back from Ben as if burned.

Her thoughts run amuck, distracting her while Edward and his Quartermaster banter back and forth, and Amelie forces herself to stride towards the back of the ship, towards the gunpowder barrels stored there. She needs to distance herself from Ben until she can think clearly, until she can remember why drawing him towards a secluded spot below deck would be a _bad idea_.

 _Remember Duncan Walpole_ , she tells herself, _remember that mistake. Remember Esme_.

Amelie's also fairly sure that sleeping with Edward's mentor would do nothing to help her situation with him.

 _Not that it's anything to do with him_ , she thinks. _We have a deal, who I sleep with has nothing to do with him_.

A lone voice starts to sing – Amelie thinks it sounds like Paddy – and the crew follow suit moments later. When Amelie turns to make her way back to the helm, back to Adé, Ben is gone.

Edward stands in his place instead, watching her with an indecipherable look.

* * *

They encounter the Spanish navy a week after, a brig of the name _Flecha_ , sailing a flag of red and gold with a red lion emblazoned on her sails.

"Sail-ho," Adé announces, handing the spyglass over to Edward while Amelie squints into the harsh early afternoon sun. "Military class brig on the horizon."

"Good eye, man," says Ben, taking the spyglass offered to him by Edward. "Are ye ready for this, Kenway? She won't go down without an honest fight."

Edward grins and shouts towards the crew, "Who's up for taking that brig lads? Shout 'aye'!"

A chorus of _aye_ follows, heartily and keenly said. Amelie's stomach churns again, those same nerves and worries that plagued her plundering the _Santa Monica_ rearing their head. She's started to convince herself that this is survival, that this is what she has to do in this time, to live in this life.

If the Spanish Navy fire back at them, if the Spanish Navy have weapons drawn ready to kill, she's obligated to fight back, isn't she? Regardless of the Creed and its tenants.

"That's a sound I like to hear," calls Edward, as another Shanty starts up in preparation for battle. "Pipe to quarters! All hands to cannons!" His eyes flickers towards Amelie as he grasps the helm, words on his tongue he doesn't get to say.

" _Careful_ around the Navy," Ben says seriously. "They're as likely to ram you as fire a broadside."

Edwards nods, considering. He glances towards the stern of the ship – to the barrels of gunpowder lashed to the sides of the ship. "Let's test those powder barrels against them, shall we?"

"Aye," agrees Ben, grinning wickedly. "Good thinking."

Edward turns the helm over to Adé as his cutlasses and pistols are brought him to him – Seth, Amelie notes, looking green but ready to fight, keen to be of service. Edward catches her arm and draws her to the side, doing up belt buckles and checking his cutlasses, checking and re-checking the pistols strapped across his chest.

"I need to know I can rely on you, lass," he tells her in a low voice. "When the time comes, I need to know you'll watch my back."

"It's not in my best interests to have you _die_ , Captain Kenway," Amelie tells him dourly, wrenching her arm free.

"Nor is it in mine," he retorts. He checks the hidden blades on his arms, the blades popping free with _snick_ s. He ponders something, staring at the thin blades while Amelie turns her eyes away, thinking scathingly, _you don't deserve those, you haven't_ earned _them_.

He starts to undo the straps on his right hand and Amelie dutifully takes the hidden blade he hands to her. He grins wryly at her astonished look.

"Reckon you know more about using these than I," he tells her, watching her curiously as she starts to attach the weapon to her arm. "I like my chances of staying alive _more_ if you're wearing one of these queer contraptions."

It will take some getting used to, she thinks, but time is not on her side and Edward doesn't know that she's not as familiar with this design. It's odd to be thanking him so genuinely, to be thanking him when his actions are motivated purely by his own selfishness, but she does it anyway, astoundingly grateful.

"I'm sure you don't actually need me watching your back, Captain," she tells him, testing the blade's mechanism as they return to the helm.

Edward rolls his shoulders. "I don't doubt it lass," he tells her cockily. "It's more of an excuse to see if you're actually as good as you say you are."

* * *

The _Flecha_ fights back and the Jackdaw loses four members to the sea and another two to their wounds. There's blood in Amelie's hair and streaked on her cheeks, lathered on her clothes, but she hardly feels it.

The large mast creaks and groans and cracks, ready to tumble and collapse at any second, and Edward strides the length of the line of bound captives, sneering all the while. There's a cruelty to him here, Amelie finds, one the Captain has spent time honing as they've plundered and pillaged as they saw fit. He uses the cutlass in his hand to pick at the golden coats of the soldiers kneeling before him, smirking cruelly as they whimper and plead for their lives.

He looks over his shoulder, finding her standing near the gangplank connecting the Jackdaw and the Flecha. He takes her in quickly, the blood on her hands and her coat, the smears on her face and the matted patches of her hair. She wants to think he's impressed, wants to think part of him as realised the gift she is to his crew.

 _Desmond realised it within minutes of meeting me_ , Amelie remembers, squaring her shoulders and keeping her expression neutral.

"Well, lads," Edward says, his voice carrying over the taunting shouts of his crew. "This is a predicament, ay?" The bound men shift unsurely, peering cautiously at the Captain. Over Amelie's shoulder, she sees Ben, watching the scene proudly, smugly, and Adé at the helm, his expression as indifferent as hers. She wonders if that's the more terrifying thing for these men, bound and helpless; do they see the cruel smirks that twist the lips of the Jackdaw's crew and feel fear, or does the real terror come from the silent men who stand impassively and _watch_?

Behind the last man stands Donoghue, his pistol levelled at the head of the injured and bound man. He's serious, focussed entirely on ensuring the man remains in fear of his life, and he looks nothing like the man Amelie has shared drinks with on the Jackdaw these last few weeks.

Edward slows to a stop in the centre of the line, crouching in front of the largest of the captives; a brute of a man who wielded a large axe throughout the battle. He reminds Amelie of El Tiburón, large and furious in his silence, but thinking of Torres' bodyguard does nothing but remind her of Val and Hana, dead before their time.

"Now, you could join us," Edward continues, rising once more, "pledge your allegiance to the brethren of Nassau, sail under my command as free men, or..." He rolls his shoulders again, working out the strain from the battle. The blade in his hand catches the sunlight, an unspoken threat.

Amelie can't imagine what those men must be thinking; the crew of the Jackdaw boarded their ship and slaughtered their comrades, blew their ship to hell, and now Edward is offering them a place on his ship, as _pirates_. She tries to imagine herself in their place, tries to imagine being posed this offer after having watched Shaun and Rebecca and Desmond and Esme killed in front of her, tries to imagine being asked to join the Templars after watching them kill Val and Hana.

She doesn't know what her answer would be.

 _Stay alive_ has been her mantra since arriving here, has been the words she tells herself when she wakes in the morning and before she goes to sleep in the evening. _Stay alive by any means necessary_. She wonders if these men have anything like that.

Three of the five join the Jackdaw's crew. The large brute is not one of them.

* * *

The _Hades_ starts to tail them a month later, after Edward and Ben have made the decision to return to Salt Key Bank with the Jackdaw's stolen cargo and cannons. Her sails are blood red and far too obvious and Edward's agitated by the sight of them.

"Who are these jokers?" he asks, the spyglass at his eye and Amelie on his right. Ben is frowning, the stained collar of his shirt fluttering in the wind.

"Hunters, lad," he says, though he doesn't sound quite as serious as Amelie thinks he should be.

" _Pirate_ hunters?" she asks, with some incredulity.

Ben fixes her with an amused stare. "Did ye think we'd be stealin' all this cargo without any retaliation?"

"Fair point," Amelie concedes. She tests the mechanism on her hidden blade as Edward shouts for the crew to raise the black flag. Captain Kenway's grin is unworried.

"Let's give them something to hunt then, shall we?"


	12. Sugarcane and its Yields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie is reunited with an old friend, and she and Edward find some common ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait lovelies! <3

There's a considering look on Thatch's face when she meets him next. "So how _did_ ye meet Kenway, lass? I don't recall ye tellin'."

"You never asked," she responds.

"Aye, that's true," says the other Captain with a nod. "I'd still like an answer, if ye be willin'."

"And if I'm not?" Amelie adjusts the bandana in her hair, untangling strands of her red curls from the fabric.

Thatch shrugs. "This ain't an interrogation, lass," he tells her, "merely a question among new acquaintances."

His answer surprises her but she gives him the same response she's given everyone. "I tried to kill him."

Thatch barks a laugh. "A lass not interested in his pretty-boy face, that's a first."

"Tell me about it," pipes in Ben. He hands off a bottle of rum to Thatch. "Ye should hear the two o' them, Thatch, bickerin' and fightin' like the oldest of couples."

Thatch laughs again when Amelie rolls her eyes. "We have a deal," she says, but she doesn't know why.

"And does that deal come with certain _luxuries_?" Thatch asks. Her confusion at his question quickly morphs into horror and disgust.

" _No_!" she cries, louder than intended, angrier than intended. " _Honestly_ , what is it with men and thinking with their dicks _all the time_?"

"Come now, lass," says Ben, stepping in with palms raised. "We meant no disrespect to ye." He shrugs. "We was just curious is all."

"Nosey more like," puts in Amelie, frowning disgruntledly.

"Aye, that too," agrees Thatch unashamedly. He takes a drink, nudges her side with his elbow. "No one would fault ye for givin' in t' yer baser instincts, lass." He pauses, taking in Amelie's annoyed expression and says before she can start to rant, "The Lord only knows how many women ol' Kenway has brought t' his bed."

"That doesn't comfort me," she bites out and then, swiping Ben's rum from his hand, "and I haven't even _thought_ about... that."

"I'm sure ye haven't, lass," says Ben and there's a knowing smirk on his lips that makes her blood boil.

"I _haven't_!" she insists. She doesn't tell them the last time she left herself that vulnerable, it threw her onto a quest for vengeance that left her allies dead in Havana. She doesn't fight Ben when he takes the bottle from her hand again. "Besides, we hate each other."

There's a pause. Ben sidles closer and whispers in her ear, "That's the best kind."

"Now Ben," grumbles Thatch, fisting a hand in the man's coat sleeve, "that's enough of that."

"Didn't mean no harm by it," responds Ben, backing away. Amelie ignores the pounding of her heart and the twisting of her stomach. Her cheeks are hot; what was it Thatch said? No one would fault her for giving in to her _baser instincts_? Does that include jumping Ben Hornigold right here and now? Or does _baser instincts_ only apply to Edward Kenway?

The man himself starts towards them, a crate of rum in his hands. There's a grin on his face and swagger in his step; apparently the sale went well.

"You're a wonder, Kenway," starts to Ben, handing Amelie his half-empty bottle and taking a new one from the crate. Amelie thinks there must only be around five crates in the cargo hold now, the rest sold earlier in the morning. "You've a knack for this kinda work."

"It ain't work if ya love it," replies Edward happily, catching easily the bottle Ben throws him.

"Ah, ha, _tosh_!" Thatch says with a shake of his head and a grin and Amelie rolls her eyes and looks away, willing her heart to calm and her cheeks to cool.

 _I don't need to sleep with anyone_ , she tells herself, absently braiding her tangled hair. _I need to find Esme and go home_.

Ben glances over his shoulder at her and _winks_.

Amelie sighs. _But it would soothe an itch_.

"But I ain't doin' this forever, lads," continues Edward wistfully. "Only until I get enough coin to buy some land and influence back home."

Ben nearly chokes. " _Jaysus_ , will you listen to yer tripe?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Still dreamin' on about that strumpet back in England when you could 'ave any Betty ye wanted here and _now_."

Amelie sees the irritation cross Edward's face but her thoughts have turned to Ben's words; _strumpet back in England_? Who? A childhood sweetheart? A woman he's trying to impress? Edward hands off his bottle to Ollie walking past, the little lad recently taken on as their cabin boy, and she smiles softly as Cuddy cuffs him over the ear, oblivious to Edward having given it to the lad only seconds before.

"Ah, such lofty goals for you gents," calls Edward, making his way to the helm. Adé gestures for Amelie to follow, a quick nod of the head that has her passing off her own bottle and hastily ascending the stairs. "And here I thought I was in the company of _scoundrels_." 

 _They are_ , Amelie thinks, _just like you are too_. _And me now, I suppose_.

"A fine purchase today," greets Edward to Adé merrily. He waits until it's only the three of them standing at the helm and asks, a touch more seriously, "What's the crew's mood?"

"All smiles and no teeth," answers his quartermaster, "and there's a few talking about meeting with Master Kidd to steal from a nearby plantation."

"A plantation?" repeats Edward incredulously. "That's ambitious."

"Profitable, too, if we can manage it."

"Aye." Edward reaches for the helm, his fingers wrapping around the spokes almost lovingly. "It's a good idea."

* * *

"You never did tell me how you know Kidd, lass," muses Edward thoughtfully the next afternoon, as the Jackdaw sails for Andreas Island and the promise of profit.

"I'm well-travelled, Captain Kenway," she tells him with a shrug. "We have..." _the same friends_. _The same Creed_. "History."

She chuckles softly at her choice of word.

"What kind of 'history'?" inquires Edward sceptically. There's something she can't identify in his voice and she rolls with it.

"I don't think you need me to answer that, Captain." She accompanies her words with a sly smirk.

"No," he answers softly and with a frown. "I don't suppose I do."

A titter travels through the crew the closer they get to the island, an excitement that ripples and infects. Amelie's comfortable with it, more at ease with a hidden blade on her arm where it belongs – she's worn one since she was sixteen, to be without one for almost seven months has made her feel more naked than ever before – but there's a strange unease that lingers in the back of her mind at seeing Kidd again. Their last meeting had left her with questions – why do the assassins need her shadowing Edward? What use is this captain to them? – and she's still angry with him, she reflects, but not so much that seeing him again won't relax her.

Kidd is familiar, an ally and friend where she's surrounded by mere acquaintances that barely know her. Kidd will understand her struggles – the Creed forbids the spilling of innocent blood, but the life the assassins want her to lead thrives on it; where does that leave her? – and perhaps he will have the answers.

"Adé, the helm is yours," Edward instructs as the Jackdaw drops anchor off the small island. Amelie can see a small group of men around a campfire, merry and jolly and drinking and eating, and a familiar figure idling nearby. "Amelie, with me."

Edward doesn't bother with friendly greetings as they jump from the longboat and push it up the sand. He saunters towards the small group, Amelie at one shoulder and Paddy at the other, a smile on his face but a stalk to his steps.

"Why look!" he cries, as Kidd turns to greet them, running a deceivingly uninterested eye over the three of them. "It's the bastard son of the late William Kidd! Still a mere boy and yet... _ten times_ the demon his father was."

A chuckle ripples through the small group as Edward accepts the cooked fist offered him. He gives Kidd a mocking grin as Amelie shakes her head and looks away.

"Fancy seein' you here, Kenway," drawls Kidd, strolling towards him. "Still lookin' sleek and mean. Did ye steal that costume from a dandy in Havana?"

Amelie laughs with Kidd's men at his comment but there's an undercurrent of discomfort as she meets Kidd's eyes. Kidd _knows_ , Amelie thinks, he _must_. The robes are familiar, even as cut up and changed and morphed into something different as they are. The sash is still there, the hidden blades, the blue and white; Kidd must recognise it, he _must_.

It's not until Edward answers, a dark look in his eyes with his response, that Amelie realises what's happened; Kidd has _baited_ him, looking for an answer straight from the horse's mouth.

"No, sir," Edward says carelessly, "I found this on a corpse... one that was walking about and talking shite to my face only moments before."

The laughter from Kidd's men abruptly stops. If Amelie didn't already know that Duncan Walpole was dead, she'd wonder if this was merely Edward putting Ben's lessons to good use; pretending, putting on a show, _project authority and demand respect_.

"Hm," is all Kidd has to say. Amelie catches his eye, sees a contemplation there that confuses her. _I told you Edward killed him_ , she wants to say, _why did you need to hear it for yourself_? _What do you gain from that_?

Kidd leads Edward away, out of hearing of the men, and Amelie's about to follow, curiosity pushing onwards, when a face catches her eye, slouched in front of the campfire, fingers interlocked under his chin, a smile growing on his face when she finally _sees_ –

"Darío!" she cries softly, throwing her arms around his neck when she's sure Kidd and Edward have left the group, when she's _sure_ Edward will not see. " _Mon Dieu_ *1, I thought you were dead!"

"Takes a lot more than a little scuffle in the heat to kill me, _cariña_." He pulls back, looking her over swiftly. "You, _you_ , we had thought the worst!"

"I know," she murmurs. "We have Edward to thank for –"

"We thank him for nothing, the _bastardo_ ," growls Darío, his expression darkening. "He may not be allied with the Templars but he carried out Walpole's betrayal."

"What do you mean?" Amelie waves off Paddy's concern as Darío hooks her arm and leads her away, his words not meant for anyone but her. "Darío, _mon ami_ *2, what's happened?"

"Tulum is not safe anymore _cariña,_ " replies the Spaniard. "For months now we've had to fend off more attacks."

"Templars?"

" _Sí_."

Amelie recalls a conversation then; Edward in the captain's cabin – _maps_ , the word said uncaringly, dismissively, _the gold wasn't heavy enough in my hand_...

"Edward did _this_?" She runs a hand through her hair. "He didn't know what the maps were..."

"Yet he sold them anyway," Darío says, glowering at the horizon. "I fear he has single-handedly become our downfall, _cariña_."

"No, we'll come back from this," Amelie says softly. _The Assassins are never truly destroyed_ , her mother always told her, _so long as there's one of us, we can come back_. "We always do."

"And so do they," replies her friend. He sighs, sounds tired. "This war will never end." He takes her hand then, tightly, desperately. "Come with me now, _cariña_ , let me take you home."

 _Home_ , Amelie thinks then, her heart seeming to drop like a stone with her worry. _What home_? Does he mean 2013? Does he mean Esme?

And what about Edward and the Jackdaw? The crew? _You're one of the first_ , Cuddy had told her, so proud, _no one can take that from you_.

"I don't..."

"Darío," calls Kidd, approaching them slowly. Amelie turns her troubled eyes to the horizon, to the ships sailing in the distance.

Darío nods his head in greeting but his lips twist in anger. "We shouldn't be helping that _canalla*3_ , James." He clenches his hands into fists, eyes narrowed. "We should kill him where he stands."

"What would that achieve?" Kidd asks calmly, but the irritation in his voice tells Amelie this is a conversation they've had before. "You'd have every pirate in the West Indies on your tail, lookin' for revenge."

Darío appears unworried. "I've had worse."

Kidd rolls his eyes. "Get out of here, Spaniard. Ol' Paddy looks ready to kill ye anyway."

Darío storms away muttering Spanish under his breath, insults and complaints that Amelie only just manages to catch but most that she doesn't understand anyway. She crosses her arms over her chest, frowning worriedly at the waves crashing to shore.

"He wants to take me back to Tulum," she admits softly. "Says the attacks are becoming more and more frequent."

"They are," answers Kidd, "but we're holdin'."

"But for how long?"

"As long as we need to."

She pauses, sighs. "Edward did this."

"Aye." Kidd moves to stand closer. "And I'll get 'im to fix it."

* * *

Edward drops a purse into her hand later in the evening, after the crew of the Jackdaw have retired for the night and they're the only two on deck. She weighs it in her hand, frowning at the small red pouch, and any questions she wants to ask are answered by Edward shrugging.

"You're part of this crew," he says. "The crew earns a wage."

"That's nice of you," she mutters.

He shrugs. "Least I could do for ya stickin' around," he tells her. He leans against the bannister beside her casually. "Figured you'd be long gone by now. I'm surprised, if I'm honest."

"We made a deal." Amelie pockets the money – her _wage_ – and tries to ignore the heavy feeling that settles on her chest. A wage for hunting innocents, for terrorising them, for being a _pirate_.

"Aye," answers Edward, "and you went back on that deal once already."

"That won't happen again," she tells him honestly. "I reacted without thinking –"

"Aye, to something _Kidd_ said." He pauses. "Must be one hell of a _history_."

"Keep trying, Captain," Amelie says around a smile. "I'm not going to tell you how I know Kidd."

"I'm sure it's a thrilling story," says Edward, following her when she turns and starts to walk away. "Tell me; is he as capable with the sword between his legs as he is with the one in his hand?"

"If I didn't know any better, Captain, I'd say you were jealous," Amelie quips. "Or threatened."

"Come on," Edward says, following along to the poop deck. "Did he save your life? Did you save _his_?" He leans in to her, whispering in her ear, "Did he become embroiled in an _Assassin_ plot?"

Amelie can't help it; she starts laughing, loud, uncontrollable chuckles that have her clutching her stomach and gripping the wood under her fingers for balance. If only Edward knew, she thinks, if only he _knew_. She finds herself wishing Kidd would tell him, that it would all come out in the open; how silly will Edward feel about all these questions when he learns the truth?

"What about you, Captain?" she asks, controlling her laughter but still smiling. "How did you meet Kidd?"

"Nah, lass," he says, leaning back, smiling himself. "We're not doin' this again."

"What do you mean?"

"You _cheat_ at this," he says, "this truth for truth business. Last time I was left feeling no wiser than when we began."

Amelie shrugs and says before she can think about it, "The life of an Assassin means secrets."

"Ah," sighs Edward, "so it _was_ an Assassin plot, eh?"

She rolls her eyes. " _Vous êtes insupportable_ *4. Something like that."

He repeats her words once, twice, and shakes his head. "I don't suppose you and I will ever trust each other, will we?"

"I wouldn't say that, Captain," she replies, frowning. She wonders what's brought this on. "I trust you to keep me alive."

"Aye, but more than that." He pauses, wrestling with the words, but finally says, "Never mind."

Amelie doesn't leave the deck until she hears the door to the Captain's Cabin creaking shut, until she's alone with the stars and the sea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – my god
> 
> *2 – my friend
> 
> *3 – scoundrel
> 
> *4 – you're insufferable


	13. Proper Defences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie's plans clash with Edward's and the common ground where they stood begins to crack beneath their feet.

"I don't know what to do," Amelie admits, staring at the checkerboard in front of her seriously.

"It's alright, lass," says Cuddy opposite, setting the pieces into place. She's playing white, he black. "Like your arrows," he tells her, "with the white feathers."

"My signature," she says around a smile.

Draughts, the game is, with the aim to collect as many of the other person's pieces as possible. She's seen other members of the crew playing, seen them betting large amounts of their wages. Cuddy, thankfully, has not thrown money down yet.

"White goes first," advises the other man, leaning back in his chair with an air of indifference but watching her carefully. "You can only move diagonally, lass, and only forward."

Amelie picks a piece and slowly slides it forward.

* * *

She loses.

 _Badly_.

"It's a stupid game anyway," she rants, throwing herself to her feet with a huff.

"Don't blame the game, lass," laughs Cuddy as she storms away, pushing through the crew who'd crowded around her. Kidd falls into step with her as she passes, a smirk on his lips and an amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Don't start," she warns, "don't you bloody start or I swear to god, _je vais te tuer ici_.*1"

"I wouldn't dream o' it," says Kidd.

In the few weeks since Edward's partnership with him, Amelie has remembered fondly the times spent with the assassin on Tulum, and has found herself grateful for his company once more. He calms her when her thoughts grow too loud, when her worries become too frequent, and he _understands_.

"The Creed itself is hypocritical," he'd told her seriously one night, as they sat side by side on the beach and watched the waves coming in. "We, as Assassins, fight for peace yet we kill to achieve that end. The tenants of our very own Creed dictate that we should die for following 'em." Amelie had frowned and fiddled with her hair as he'd continued, "To hide in plain sight in this life is to _be_ a pirate – to be a pirate is to take innocent lives."

"Stuck between a rock and a hard place no matter you do," she'd said, feeling no better than the first time she'd joined the boarding party on the Jackdaw.

"Come on," Kidd says, hooking an arm around her neck and tugging her along. "The lads are waitin'. Thatch has got some big plan he wants Kenway's opinion on."

"Oh?" Amelie pulls back slightly to peer up at Kidd. "What kind of plan?"

"Proper defences."

The 'lads' consists of Thatch, Edward and Adé, sat jovially around a campfire and chatting while the crew around them drink and be merry. Thatch hands Amelie a bottle of rum as she passes and Kidd settles on the log by Adéwalé, at ease and grinning.

"Cheers, Thatch," Amelie murmurs, dropping to the sand beside Edward and nodding towards the Jackdaw's Quartermaster over the dancing flames.

"You two seem to be gettin' awfully cosy again," comments Edward near her ear.

She shrugs. "He's been helping me through some things."

He frowns, his expression darkening. "I'm sure that's not all he's been doing."

She rolls her eyes and huffs a laugh, muttering, " _On y va encore une fois_.*2"

There's a retort on Edward's lips – another complaint about her French, Amelie assumes, they seem to be becoming more and more frequent lately – but Thatch draws her eyes, taking a long drink and holding his bottle aloft.

"Here's to our Pirate Republic, lads," he proclaims and Amelie knows she's not mistakenly hearing the slur in his voice. "We're prosperous 'n _free_ and out of the reach of king's, clergy and debt collectors."

Amelie holds her bottle aloft with the others but Edward steals it from her hand before she can take a drink. There's a playful smirk on his lips when she snatches it back, savouring the sweet taste and the smell of burning wood in the air.

"Near five hundred men now pledge their allegiance to the brethren of the coast of Nassau," adds Kidd, smiling. "Not a bad number."

"Truth." Thatch pauses, taking another drink. His words turn serious despite the drunken slur. "Yet we lack sturdy defences. If the King _were_ to attack the town, he'd trample us."

"Then let us find the Observatory," says Edward, and Amelie catches Kidd's eye, shaking her head and sighing. "If it does what these Templars claim, we'll be unbeatable."

Amelie notices Adé watching her interaction with Kidd, watching the glances shared between the two of them, the frustration – the _knowledge_. She turns her gaze away quickly, unwilling to face questions she's not sure she wants to answer.

"Not that twaddle again, Kenway," Thatch spits furiously, and Edward takes her bottle again as he gets to his feet, frustration pouring from every movement. "That's a story for schoolboys," continues Thatch, eyes following the young captain as he paces. "I mean _proper defences_. Steal a Galleon, shift all the guns to one side." He pauses, musing. "Would make a nice ornament for one of our harbours."

Kidd accepts the bottle of rum offered to him by Edward – Amelie's bottle, she notes – and Kidd salutes her with the green glass before taking a healthy swig.

"It will not be easy to steal a full Spanish Galleon," says Adé seriously, doubtfully. "Have you one in mind?" 

Thatch licks his lips, leaning idly against the log at his back. Edward has rounded the campfire and stands near Amelie again, right at her back – if she thought they were close enough, she could lean back and use his legs as a cushion.

"I do, sir," says Thatch smugly. "An' I'll show ye. She's a fussock, she is. _Fat_ and _slow_."

* * *

They sail in the morning, hunting for _El Arca del Maestro_ ; Thatch in Amelie's place beside Edward, and Kidd and Amelie stretched across the stairs to his left, lounging idly and chatting about nonsense. The crew are in high spirits, cheering and laughing and joking and singing, thrilled with the prospect of stealing a ship from the Spanish, thrilled with sticking it to those who hate pirates the most.

Edward seems more proud than usual of his crew today, Amelie notes, joining in with the singing, laughing at the jokes – Thatch is smiling like a proud father, standing with his arms crossed and looking thoroughly impressed with the ship. He doesn't try to hide it, not like Hornigold did, Amelie thinks – he's impressed with Edward and all he's achieved, even if his stories of the Observatory grate on the older man's nerves.

"Seagrave passes on 'is salutations," Kidd says, as Amelie watches the sails rippling in the wind overhead.

"How is he?" she asks. The last time she'd seen Newton Seagrave had been when the Gipsy was sliding into Havana's port; he hadn't gone with them to Rhona, she remembers, and she'd worried then that he'd been caught when everything went sideways with their mission.

Kidd is silent while he thinks. "Frustrated, I suppose," he says eventually.

"Why?"

"Because I wouldn't let 'im sweep you off t' Tulum."

Amelie's eyes are wide with surprise. "Oh."

"Aye."

"If I'd known that he was on my side," Amelie muses thoughtfully, teasingly, "I'd have sought him out and left Nassau in a heartbeat."

Kidd's grin is crooked. "Why d'ye think I kept that morsel of information to myself?"

Amelie huffs a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. " _Espčce de bâtard_.*3"

He chuckles. "Don't need t' know French t' know what ye just called me."

He helps her to her feet, still grinning, and they stand side by side as the Jackdaw sails, dark and dangerous grey clouds roll in. They loom ominously overhead, a constant threat that reminds Amelie of that hurricane months ago; they'd been so close to death that day and they cinched their lives _straight from the teeth of Neptune_.

"Your Jackdaw handles nice," Thatch comments to Edward. "Pinched her from the Spanish, was it?"

Amelie sidles into the gap between the burly man and the bannister, a position familiar to her from Hornigold's time on board. Kidd idles nearby, gazing serenely, thoughtfully, at the bright sky they're leaving behind them.

"Aye," answers Edward, "in the midst of a hurricane."

"Just before the treasure fleet was smashed against the shore," adds Adéwalé. His smile is not smug; Amelie would say it's awed. Apparently their close call with death is not lost on the Quartermaster either.

"Was the haul aboard as rich as men were saying?" presses Thatch. He looks down at her, as if only just realising she's there, and Amelie shrugs in answer.

"A thousand times that," Edward puts in, answering Thatch's question. "I reckon a million pounds worth of Reales were sunk that day."

"Devil love a hurricane!" cries Thatch jovially. His next words are thoughtful, pondering aloud, "Might have a dive there one day; see what we can rummage up."

There's a breath of silence.

"Diving them wrecks would be a nice change of pace for us," Adé suggests. "No need for violent actions against merchants and such."

Amelie thinks she might have turned her head hard enough to get whiplash. Kidd, she notes, is now looking at Edward's Quartermaster with interest, a considering smile crossing his face. Edward's face twists into displeasure and Amelie catches the scowl sent her way; her answer is merely a blank look. She can truthfully say this has nothing to do with her – Adéwalé's opinions about their pirate activities and her own are so far not connected in any way.

Not _yet_.

"Well," says Thatch. "That's some soft talk comin' from a pirate." He pauses, heaves a sigh that makes the pistols on his chest bounce. "And as it 'appens, I mostly agree."

Amelie's never seen Adéwalé preen before but she's sure the smile that crosses his face at Thatch's words comes _mighty_ close.

"We'll save the clashing of cutlasses for the military," continues Thatch and Amelie prays Edward listens; Thatch appears akin to a father-figure to the younger man. "And them that get in our way."

If Edward will listen to _any_ one, Amelie hopes it's Thatch.

~~~~

They find _El Arca del Maestro_ in the late afternoon, when the rain pelts against their skin and freezes their hands. Amelie's soaked through; her jacket feels heavier than usual with the extra water and the hair covered by her hood is damp and stringy.

The Galleon is a beast of a ship, with three large masts and so many guns Amelie doesn't even want to count. It flies its red and yellow flag proudly, with every right to, and Amelie begins to doubt the chances of success in this mission.

Edward takes the spyglass from her hand as she lowers it, drawing it to his own eye once again. She's still watching the ship as it sails – just like Thatch said – _slowly_ through the storm. It's Edward at her side who draws her attention towards the three ships making quick headway for the monster.

"Charles Vane," announces Thatch, shaking his head in astonishment. "He's as reckless as they come."

Edward's lips twitch in amusement. "An old friend of yours?"

"Not a man I'd call friend," says Thatch, and Amelie wonders what kind of man he _would_ call 'friend.' Hornigold? Edward? "But we've been doin' this kinda work for so long, I can't help but respect the man."

Amelie can't say she shares the sentiment, watching Vane's small fleet open fire on the Galleon.

She _definitely_ doesn't share it as the ships turn tail and flee, overpowered after only one volley of cannon-fire.

The Jackdaw avoids being spotted by the Galleon, so preoccupied as the Spanish ship is with seeing off Vane and his defeated allies, and they tail her to a small island, dropping anchor farther away now they know where their prize has docked.

"I know the place," Thatch says, nodding, and he accepts the spyglass from Edward gladly. "A natural stronghold used by a French captain named du Casse."

Amelie will marvel later at Kidd's poker face, how he's able to keep an indifferent expression to the name when Amelie's on her feet and charging towards the two captains. Edward sets a hand on her shoulder to calm her; irritated, she throws it off, glowering heatedly.

"Julien du Casse?" Edward checks, "The Templar?"

"Name's right," responds Thatch, "didn't know he 'ad a title."

"I know the man," says Edward after a pause, "and if he sees my ship, he'll know it from his time in Havana meaning he _may_ wonder at who's sailing her now. I can't risk that."

"And I don't want to lose that Galleon."

Kidd's hand is on Amelie's arm in an instant, drawing her away from the squabbling captains, and his eyes are concerned. He masks his surprise well when she wrenches her arm out of his grip.

"You know what I have to do," she tells him in a low voice, insistent. "If there's even the smallest chance he has Esme's journal –"

"I can't let ye take the risk, Amelie," Kidd says, "not after what 'appened last time."

"That was a one-off – I'm better prepared this time. I don't have any distractions."

" _Esme_ is a distraction –"

" _Don't_ talk about her like you _know_ her," Amelie snaps, and her anger manifests in the shoving of her friend; she plants both hands on his chest and throws him backwards, a snarl on her lips as he stumbles away.

Edward's shouting, she can hear him, but Amelie's blinking in surprise and staring at where Thatch is helping to steady Kidd.

She might be going crazy, she thinks, but she's pretty sure Kidd's chest is not as flat as it should be.

"What the devil's come over you, eh?" says Edward, taking her arm and leading her to the stairs. He doesn't say anything else until the doors to the Captain's Cabin are shut firmly behind them. "What the hell was that?"

"It doesn't matter," she says. She's not as angry now; she's confused instead, puzzling it over in her head. "It doesn't matter."

"Aye, 'course it doesn't," snaps Edward, invading her personal space, crowding her against the desk with his navigational maps and tools. "You're only goin' around and raging at guests aboard the Jackdaw."

Amelie scoffs. "Kidd's a grown-ass man, he can handle it."

"That's not the _point_ –"

"Are we going after du Casse or not?"

"That's not –"

"Esme's journal," she cuts in, stopping his rant. "Is there a chance du Casse could have it? _Any_ at all?"

"Christ..." he sighs and shakes his head, rubbing a hand down his face. "That's what this is about?"

It's _always_ about this, she nearly tells him. I'm here for _this_. "Answer the question."

"And what do I get for answering?" Edward asks, somehow wrestling control of the conversation from her once more. "Say I've forgotten if he had any interest in it at all."

Amelie growls. "Then this is a waste of my time."

He stops her from going for the door, a hand on her arm that she tries to shake off and then a pressing of his hips against hers as he forces her to still against the desk. She gasps from surprise more than anything else, her revitalised anger from before quickly dissipating.

"A truth for a truth," Edward breathes, his breath warm against her hair. "Isn't this a game you like to play?"

"You always initiate it," she murmurs back. They're alone in this room but it feels crowded and stuffy, overheated. She doesn't have a truth to give him, she thinks in a panic – the only truth she has she doesn't think he'll believe. _Yep, nice to meet you Captain Kenway, I'm actually from the future, crazy right? Please don't kill me._

"What's in that bloody journal that has you so hell-bent on getting it back?"

She takes a deep breath. "I can't tell you."

Edward releases her, taking a step back, and Amelie finds she misses his touch, as restricting and suffocating as the position might have been. He shrugs leisurely, uncaringly, and Amelie thinks she might cry.

"Then it's of no concern to me," he tells her breezily.

" _Jesus_ ," she mutters. She turns her face to the ceiling to hide the frustrated tears from his sight. When that doesn't work she turns, hating the hot, salty fluid as it trails down her cheeks. "It's just..." she inhales shakily. "It's _important_ , alright? More than you realise."

Amelie wishes she could say her crying was a ploy to get him to bend to her will – it wouldn't have worked anyway – but she relishes in hindsight the uncomfortable fidgeting of the Captain as he waits for her to compose herself. She takes a few deep breaths and wipes her eyes.

Edward sighs. "Maybe du Casse has it, maybe Torres does. It's of no importance to me." He pauses. "But if it's there, I'll see it returned to you. Fair?"

Her eyes are red and blotchy; she nods once. "Yes."

His lips quirk. "For a price."

She hopes he's teasing but she's mostly sure that he's not.

He leaves her alone in the cabin, an order thrown over his shoulder that she "stay until her head's clear" and she has no problem with that. The last thing she wants or needs is the crew of the Jackdaw seeing the state she's in – all over the _journal_.

 _I did this_ , she tells herself, leaning heavily on Edward's desk and trying to control her breathing, trying to stem the flow of fresh tears before they start. _I have to fix it_.

Duncan Walpole took Esme's journal from Amelie after that one night, one night that she'd wanted to soothe an itch. Instead it had spread a rash and Amelie's yet to find a salve to cure it.

She's overtaken by an urge to _hit_ something, to truly, unrestrainedly, release her rage upon something in the room. Her hand encloses around the candlestick in front of her, the bronze heavy in her hand as she launches it to the side and a scream wrenches itself free of her throat, furious and raw; it makes a dull and soft thumping sound as it connects with the curtain separating the more private parts of his cabin from the door and desk.

 _I have to fix this_ , she thinks again. She can barely remember the contents of her friend's journal; Amelie's sure there are notes on the First Civ and the temples, notes she's also sure the Templars will be all too happy to have in their possession. Letters too, she thinks, thoughts and regrets she never got to send to Amelie when she disappeared on her search.

 _I should have been with her_. Amelie wipes her eyes of those hateful tears and catches her breath. _I have to find her_.

She sees now that Edward's help will come with a price – what a true _pirate_ , she thinks hatefully – and she doesn't think it's a price she's willing to pay. Amelie sees now that their partnership was never truly going to work; she can't be honest with him about the nature of her arrival and she can't trust him not to use her knowledge of the future to his own gain.

He's ambitious like all pirates but his seeking out the Observatory might be almost savage, especially if he were to come close.

 _No_ , she thinks, standing straighter, inhaling deeply as she forms her plans. _If the Observatory is my way home, I'll find it without him_.

* * *

*1 – I will kill you right here

*2 – Here we go again

*3 – You sly bastard


	14. Returning the Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie fucks shit up. 
> 
> Again.

Amelie watches Edward from the treeline, her clothes and hair damp and the air sticky despite the lateness of the hour. They moved like shadows through the trees, disturbing nothing and no one as they passed, and a quiet plan had formed in his mind when they'd lingered in the undergrowth.

"Those powder barrels there," he whispered, with a gleeful smile, "they'll make one hell of a distraction, don't ya think?"

Amelie's eyes trail over the small encampment; du Casse, in the large tent, barking orders at the guards, and the bonfire opposite. The powder kegs have been placed deliberately far away, she notes, to prevent any accidents, and Edward's plan, if she's interpreting his words correctly, will certainly create a big enough distraction and provide cover for the crew of the Jackdaw to infiltrate the island.

Amelie nods once, understanding. "I'll go where you need me, Captain," she says, and the words feel heavier to say than she intends.

Edward's nod is curt, his expression stern. "Keep their eyes off me," he tells her.

They part ways then – him towards the powder barrels and she towards the tent housing du Casse, her eyes scanning over the soldiers and considering briefly the idea of letting them find Edward and ruin his plan. How easy things might become then, she thinks angrily, if he weren't in her way anymore. How easy it would be then, to convince Kidd to take her back to Tulum, back to the place where her journey started, back to the one place she's not even sure it's best for her to be anymore.

 _I'm not getting any closer to finding Esme with Edward_ , she thinks irately. _What good is he to me now_?

And from what she understands, the Sage is the key to finding the Observatory. If the Assassins and the Templars are looking for him, what's stopping her from helping the Assassins to find him?

She distracts the guards where she can; quiet whistles from behind barrels, a scratching of a hidden blade against a tree trunk, a scuffing of her boot against the ground. When the powder kegs go up in smoke and du Casse emerges from his tent, Amelie rounds the corner in time to see Edward plunge his hidden blade in his chest.

Du Casse stumbles backwards, staggers to his knees as Edward's steps away, removing his blade from the Frenchman with a sucking sound.

"You remember the gift you gave me?" Edward asks casually, showing off the blade on his arm as du Casse clutches at his chest. "Well it answers just fine."

" _Fils de pute_!*1" cries du Casse, clutching at Edward's coat with a bloodied hand. His eyes rake over Amelie as she approaches slowly, silhouetted by the raging fire at her back. Sounds of gunfire rise into the night as the crew of the Jackdaw race ashore, charging through the waves and onto the beach, cutting down the Spanish soldiers as they stand still dazed from Edward's distraction. "As bold as a musket ball and still half as sharp!"

Edward pushes him away roughly, uncaringly, and Amelie's moving before she realises, crouching at du Casse's side as her mother whispers in her ear; _it's his right that you hear his last words. It's your duty to deliver his final rites_.

"I'm sorry about this mate," Edward gloats, a deceptive lament that Amelie knows du Casse doesn't believe for a second, "but I can't risk you telling your Templar friends about me still kicking around." His hand reaches for Amelie's shoulder, a rough encouragement for her to stand that she shrugs off.

 _You took his life, mon trésor,_ her mother would say. _You owe it to him to hear his last words._

It's wisdom passed down through their Brotherhood, wisdom passed down from the Auditore's themselves. Amelie remembers the lessons well, remembers her first kill and the rage that took her – he'd killed a friend of hers, a man she'd trained with for years, someone she _loved_. She was furious, punching and kicking, and only her mother's words had calmed her, educated her.

 _Just because we kill them does not mean we have to become them_.

She told her after that the lesson she'd learned that day was passed down from Mario Auditore to Ezio Auditore, _the_ Ezio Auditore, and Amelie remembers clearly seeing that knowledge passed down through the Animus. Watching the screen over Rebecca's shoulder as Desmond relived that moment, the lump that clogged her throat and the tears that stung her eyes; Lucy had patted her arm and Esme had consoled her, the wound from her mother's passing still so fresh at that time.

Du Casse knows what she's doing, she thinks, knows well what the Assassins do. Even still, he slumps in her arms, his breathing laboured and his eyes angry as they land on Edward where he paces. The pirate scowls at Amelie, scowls at du Casse; she wonders if it's because he's on the outside of this, despite the kill being his. He doesn't understand this like she and du Casse do, doesn't understand the war they've been fighting for years, the dance they partake in that will never end.

"I pity you, _boucanier_ ," du Casse spits at Edward. He rests a hand over his wound, the blood spilling over his fingers and speckled on his face. Outside the sounds of battle begin to die and a cheer rises – victory. The island and the Galleon are theirs. "After all you have seen, after all we showed you of our Order, still you embrace the life of an ignorant and aimless _rogue_!"

Edward circles the Templar, reaching down to snatch at the key he wears around his neck. Amelie frowns at him, a complaint on her tongue, as the pirate muses to himself about the key's use, examining the object without a care.

"You're dying, du Casse," she murmurs gently, recalling her mother's lessons. _Comfort in death, mon trésor. You can offer them that_. "Do not let it be in vain."

His head rolls sluggishly, glassy eyes meeting her own defiantly. "I have nothing to say to you, _assassin_."

She hears Edward scoff over her shoulder, knows he'll tell her later that she's a fool for trying. "The journal," she says anyway. "Walpole took it from me and _le pirate_ ," she shoots Edward a dirty look, "delivered it to your Order. Where is it?" At his silence, she adds, " _S'il vous plait, Monsieur_. It's not meant to be read by any of you."

"And you think this will stop us?" asks du Casse. His coughs wrack his shoulders, painful for Amelie to hear. "I do not have it, _Mademoiselle_."

Amelie shakes her head, masking her disappointment with indifference. "Where is it?"

"This, I cannot say. _Mes excuses_.*2" His eyes shift to Edward, pacing the ground around them, sneering at them. "Is petty larceny the extent of your ambition?" du Casse accuses. He tries to sit up, to throw his words strongly despite his weakening life. "Have you no mind to comprehend the scope of ours? All the empires on Earth, abolished! A free and open world, without parasites like you!"

His words give Amelie pause; a free and open world, like Nassau, like the world the Assassins are trying to protect. The same goal, she reflects glumly, with vastly different methods of attaining it – the same problem passed through years of the war between Assassins and Templars.

"Perhaps you, at least, understand," du Casse utters to her. His eyes return to Edward, and he snarls with the last of his strength, " _Que l'enfer que tu trouveras soit le fruit de ton insouciance_.*3"

She closes his eyes for him, after he's breathed his last and slumped lifeless in her arms. She tells him, " _Repose en paix_ ," and lays him down on the floor of his tent, rising only after Edward has stormed from the tent. Her eyes scan the tent as she makes to follow, lingering instead on an ostentatious chest set on the desk, unlocked and begging for her to open.

"The cove is ours!" Edward hollers outside the tent, as Amelie's fingers fumble with the latch and she pries open the small piece of furniture.

" _Mon Dieu_ ," she cries in delight, unbuckling the hidden blade on her arm and reaching for _hers_. _Her_ hidden blades, newer and sleeker, different make and design, the product of years of advancement and adjustments.

She tightens them on her arms, the sign of her Master Assassin status, earned and given to her by her mother and Mentor when the time was right. She tests the blades, the near silent unsheathing of them making her heart pound with joy, and this is how Edward finds her. He re-enters the tent, words on his lips that quickly die when he sees her and the blades.

He takes the blade she returns to him with a barely disguised glower. "Thanks," she says, "but I don't need it anymore."

"Aye," he says. "I see that. Just take care not to stab me in the back with them first chance you get."

"It wouldn't be your back, Captain Kenway," Amelie tells him, gathering the chest and preparing to leave. "The throat is a much better target."

* * *

Newton Seagrave sails the Gipsy into San Inagua three days later, after the celebrations have died down and the crew of the Jackdaw lie passed out on the beaches.

Amelie is chatting amiably with Pierre, a Frenchman who joined their crew and piracy rather than be slaughtered with the Spanish soldiers he arrived here with. The man's English is choppy, his French perfect, and Amelie's seen the dark looks they've been getting from Edward.

She carries whole conversations in French with Pierre, just to piss off the Captain.

Amelie's only alerted to the arrival of the Gipsy by Seth and Donoghue, staggering towards her and holding each other up. Seth's squinting into the bright afternoon sun, staring over her shoulder at the ship as he sets the Irishman on his arm onto the bench next to Pierre.

"Here, mate," Donoghue slurs, reaching for Pierre's tankard of ale. "Let me get that for ya."

" _Pardon_?"

Amelie chuckles as Seth claps her on the shoulder; he's soberer than Donoghue, it seems, sauntering towards the balcony and watching the ship. She rises to join, still chuckling as Donoghue slurps at the ale, spilling it all down his front and onto Pierre's lap.

"Who's this then?" Seth leans forward, resting an elbow on the dirty wooden balcony. He turns his frown skyward, towards the flag. "Flyin' the black," he muses, "but I don't recognise that symbol."

Amelie _does_.

"I'll be right back," she says, hand brushing his arm as she passes. Seth starts to argue, tries to hook her elbow and draw her back, saying her name in a warning. "I'll be fine," she insists. "I know them. I'll be fine."

"Amelie, wait –"

It's Darío she spots first, swaggering onto the docks and looking around the cove with a blank expression. He's muttering something to the man at his side, another Amelie recognises immediately; his hair a shade lighter than hers, the cutlass at his side glinting gold in the sunlight. She breaks into a jog as Newt Seagrave adjusts the bracers on his arms and checks his weapons, glancing up at her approach warily at first. His lips curl into a grin when he recognises her, showing off dimples she doesn't remember seeing before.

Darío pulls her into a hug, sweeping her off the ground and into a spin, laughing in her ear. "We meet again, _cariña_ ," he murmurs as he sets her down. He eyes her up and down and steps away, satisfied, as Newt Seagrave awkwardly pats her shoulder.

"Good to see you well, Miss Crawley," he says formally.

The hug Amelie pulls him in for is brief and gawky but it serves its purpose well. "Thank you," she whispers to him. "For trying to save me."

He stiffens, his expression one of surprise for a split second before Kidd's voice breaks through their moment. He masks his surprise well with indifference and nods curtly to her, an understanding that they're not finished with this conversation.

"Captain Seagrave," Kidd greets curiously, "you're early."

"The wind was in our favour, sir," returns Newt civilly.

Kidd nods; there's an amused expression on his face. "Alright then."

Amelie's eyes flit between the two Assassins quickly, puzzled beyond articulation. Darío hooks her arm with his, leading her away and along the dock; Seth is still standing on the balcony at the tavern, joined by Paddy and Willie, all of them surveying the newcomers to the cove with stern and suspicious expressions.

Darío is unconcerned. " _Señor_ Kidd will set them right," he says and then, leaning in close so as to not be overhead. "Now, _cariña_ , what troubles you?"

"Nothing," she answers instinctively. They pass the tavern, pass Seth and Paddy and Willie and their glowers. "Come with me, I have something for you."

She finds the chest exactly where she left it, stashed behind some rocks on the beach close to an unnerving skeleton. Amelie hands it over, watches with barely concealed delight as Darío opens it, revealing the hidden blades within.

" _Cariña_ ," he breathes in wonder. "Is this...?" His fingers trace the golden pattern painted on the chest's lid. " _Estupendo_.*4"

"Du Casse's _souvenirs_." She sneers the word. "We should see them returned to their rightful home."

Darío's nodding enthusiastically, not quite listening to her, and fingers wandering over the hidden blades packed inside the container. He sifters through them, picking them up and examining them, and it's a good ten minutes before he tucks the chest under his arm and leads the way back to the docks.

She's nervously, though she knows she has no reason to be with this particular question and this particular person, rubbing the back of her neck under her heavy curls.

"Do you think..." she pauses, swallowing, rubbing at her tired eyes. She's not sure when the last good night's sleep she got was – she still hasn't gotten the hang of sleeping on the Jackdaw.

" _Sí, cariña_ ," answers the Spaniard cheekily. "I _do_ think." He nudges her in the side with his elbow when she shoots him an unimpressed look. "What is on your mind, Amelie?"

Amelie's footsteps falter as they draw closer to the docks, to the crew of the Jackdaw and the _El Arca del Maestro_ lingering there. Finding a large rock nearby, she lowers herself onto it with a sigh, and slowly unravels the braid she's wound her hair into, and shakes it loose. It feels shorter to her – she's not sure when the last time she wore it loose and curly was; it was always straightened in the future, always contained and _pretty_ – but she knows that's impossible. It's tangled and messy like she's used to, sticking to her sweaty skin when the wind disturbs it.

"Captain Seagrave wanted to take me back," she voices cautiously, like she's afraid Darío will tell her she's mistaken.

" _Sí_ ," Darío says with a nod. "He was quite furious with James when he refused."

 _That's_ comforting, at least. Darío's lips curls into a knowing smirk.

"Ah, Amelie," he sighs happily. " _Querida_ , I knew _you_ 'd see sense."

* * *

"Captain Seagrave," Edward greets, swaggering into the tavern in the late evening, when the crew are fast dwindling the island and Jackdaw's reserves of rum and Thatch has sailed off with their newly acquired Galleon. Newt stands, the crew of the Gipsy scattered around him but all alert to Edward's arrival. "Welcome to San Inagua, mate."

"Thank you." Newt accepts Edward's proffered handshake confidently. "Jim has told me a lot about you."

"Can't say the same." Kidd shoots Edward a warning look that only Amelie catches. "Well, you're welcome to what resources we have, Captain. Amelie, a word."

She rises slowly, bidding Darío sit and settling his annoyed look with a wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes. Kidd mutters something to Seagrave that the Spaniard hears and while it calms him, his glower remains heated and fixed on Edward's back as he leads her away from the noise.

"What's this about?" Amelie asks, as Edward leads her up a sandy path. She spies a run-down manor at the top of the hill, crumbling stone steps and a dirty stone balcony. She raises an eyebrow as they draw closer, as Edward's silence stretches on. "If you're giving me a mansion, I _really_ don't get paid enough to pay you back."

"Nah, lass," says the Captain finally, leading her inside. The double doors creak and groan as he closes them, shutting the two of them inside the large and cold home with the sheet covered furniture and dust. "I've decided to take it up for myself."

Amelie frowns. "It's a big house," she comments idly, following him as he wanders through to the back of the house, towards a large open space with a grand desk in front of its dirty windows. She can see the opening of the cove through their streaks of dirt and thinks it a beautiful view. "Are you sure you won't get lonely?"

Edward's expression turns wistful. "I have rum and the Jackdaw," he says. "A reputation that will only grow." A flicker of sadness crosses his eyes, quickly hidden behind a smile. "What more could a man possibly want?"

Her eyes trail over the maps laid out across the desk, red crosses marked on islands, the symbol of the Brotherhood in the corner. Amelie leans forward, staring seriously at the maps. Behind her, Edward stares at an unnerving cage of sorts, five locks in the centre in need of five keys.

"What are these?" she asks aloud, dreading the answer.

"The maps I sold the Templars," Edward answers carelessly. "Kidd thinks I ought to warn the Assassins of the danger."

 _Yes_ , she thinks scathingly, a scoff of disbelief escaping her lips as she turns to stare at him. _You should_.

"I imagine you told him where he could stick that idea," she says instead, a bite of anger in her voice.

"More or less," he returns.

She grits her teeth, peering around the room. Chests lie open, their contents spilling across the floor, ropes from the Jackdaw, rigging hung over dining table chairs.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asks after a sigh, thinking she'd rather be anywhere but.

Edward nods to the door, sauntering out once more, a silent invitation. She follows, frowning all the while, boots scuffing the dirty, dusty floor, and the Captain leads her along a dark corridor, opening the second door on the left. He gestures to her to enter ahead of him.

Curiously, she does.

A room, dark and cold and far too big for her to ever grow used to, but with a large, four-poster bed in the centre. A dresser sits near the window and a vanity on the other side of the room with a mirror. White sheets protect the furniture, a thin layer of dust on the fabric, and Amelie hands disturb the stillness as reaches for them.

"It's not much," Edward says from behind her, quietly, "but I reckon it's a mighty sight better than that uncomfortable hammock on the Jackdaw."

A _bed_ , Amelie thinks, almost passing out from relief. It's grand, missing drapes but still more elegant than anything she's ever had in her life. The life of an Assassin is travel, never staying in one place for too long for fear of being found and killed – even as a child, the comfiest bed she'd slept in had been in an old motel, the springs of the mattress digging into her back and the duvet too thin to provide much warmth. The studio apartment she'd met Desmond for the first time in had been a blessing, though she'd never gotten much sleep for worry that Abstergo would burst in at any second and dash their plans.

"Won't be quite so lonely with two of us here," Edward comments from the doorway. "Will give us some time to get to know one another, aye? Stop us from feeling like we need to kill one another every damn day."

It's a good idea, she thinks absently, dragging the white sheet from the bed and studying the intricate threads sewn onto the duvet. It looks comfortable and she can hardly think of anything now but sleeping.

"Thank you, Captain," she says, smiling and grateful. She sits on the spread and toes off her boots, revelling in the way her body sinks into the thick covers. "Oh, that's good."

"I'll leave you two alone, shall I?" quips Edward, shaking his head.

"Maybe in the future you could join us," she fires back, hair spread around her face in a fiery halo. "Though I'm not sure I can be convinced to share this kind of comfort."

"I'll remember that offer, lass," says Edward. His voice sounds far away.

She dreams of Esme and the temples, of the Observatory and Desmond, and her comfortable sleep brings nightmares that wake her screaming.

* * *

It's late afternoon when she emerges from the manor, her bow and quiver across her back and her cutlass at her side, hidden blades strapped securely in place. She'd paced her room for hours, mulling over her plans, mulling over Darío's plans, mulling over Edward's words from the night before. Part of her wants to stay, wants to wait and learn more about him, wants to make his idea a reality. Leaving now, like she intends...

How far back will this set their tentative, dare she call it this, friendship?

 _Meet me at the docks,_ Darío had told her the day before, _the Capitan and I will sneak you away from this dreadful place._

It's not dreadful, not even close; her life on the Jackdaw has been exciting and new and _different_ , never dreadful. She's doubted and regretted and boarded ships and stolen cargo. She's broken the Creed and hated herself for it, she's broken the Creed and scoffed at her silliness – _this is my life now_ , she used to tell herself as she clambered into her hammock.

And now she's leaving it.

 _This is for Esme_ , she thinks, turning her back on her new room and the white sheets she's returned to the furniture. _I have to find Esme_.

She'd used the vanity to fix her hair and had been astounded by the change she'd seen in herself. A gaunter face and darker skin, tanned from too many days in the scorching sun and on the deck of ships. Her green eyes had seemed darker than she remembered, her hair wilder, and she'd found scars on her neck and jaw that she hadn't realised she had.

"Where are you goin'?" Kidd asks, spotting her ambling down the path. Kidd eyes her up and down, lingering on her weapons.

"Target practice," Amelie lies. "It's been a while."

Kidd lets her go with a nod and a promise to find her before he leaves for Tulum; he tells her he's off to find Edward and they part ways. Amelie feels only mildly guilty about her lie to Kidd but hates the lump that settles like a stone in her stomach at the thought of Edward.

 _For Esme. He_ _was_ _a means to an end_.

Darío is waiting for her near the tavern, lounging against the railing as around him the crew of the Jackdaw lie sprawled, passed out and drunk. Amelie spies Seth in the corner, glowering at Darío suspiciously with Donoghue on his back on the table, a woman under his arm and a bottle of rum still in his hand. Seth's eyes trail over her as she arrives, a frown tugging at his brows, and as he starts to rise, Amelie begins to steel her resolve.

" _Dios bueno_ *5," murmurs Darío, spotting the complication. "Time to go, _cariña_."

She nods wordlessly, turning her eyes towards the Gipsy and her crew, readying to sail. Captain Seagrave stands at the stern of the ship, watching the two of them as they walk quickly towards the gangplank, trying to appear as casual as possible despite Seth trailing behind them.

"Amelie," she hears the young man calling. He's not quiet, not in the slightest, and she worries that he's raising his voice to draw attention to them, to wake his drunken crewmates and draw the attention of those too absorbed in the women that idle nearby. " _Amelie_!"

Darío waves a hand, a casual gesture towards Seagrave that has Amelie frowning and looking over her shoulder to Seth, worried for him. She turns her eyes towards Seagrave as Seth breaks into a jog, determined and dangerous, a threat to their plan.

Seagrave lifts a blowpipe to his lips – _oldest trick in the book_ , she hears Rebecca crowing, but Amelie's not sure if the voice she imagines is actually what the woman sounds like.

Seth lifts a hand to his neck, his strong steps turning into a stumble, and he reaches out a hand to steady himself on a nearby crate, staggering to his knees. He holds the dart in his fingers as he draws his hand away, blinking owlishly as he struggles to comprehend what's happened, and Amelie wants to go to him, to reassure him before she leaves –

"We cannot linger, _cariña_ ," Darío mutters to her, guiding her up the gangplank before him. "You can apologise in your prayers."

She's bundled away in the Captain's cabin, instructed to hide from sight until they've set sail and left San Inagua far behind them. She feels fluttery and nervous, jittery all over and trembling like a leaf in the wind. She removes her bow and quiver and cutlass just for something to do, setting them on Seagrave's bed in the corner and rubbing her hands down her face. She braids and un-braids her hair, twists the ends around her fingers as she paces the length of the cabin.

She hears Kidd's voice, hears Seagrave barking orders for the sails to be let loose. She hears the waves smacking against the side of the ship and Edward's voice, sounding as far away as it had the night before. A conversation is shared, orders are shouted anew, and Amelie holds her breath as the Gipsy sets sail.

She's not aware that she's kneeling on the floor with a hand over her mouth and the other clenched into a fist at her side until half an hour later when Darío slips into the cabin wearing a shit-eating grin.

The relief she feels is instantaneous and rueful. She leans back, knocking her head against the desk at her back, and exhales deeply and shakily, a curl of her hair falling into her eyes.

"Time to return to where you belong, _cariña_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – son of a whore!
> 
> *2 – my apologies.
> 
> *3 – may the hell you find be of your own making (or, as I read somewhere, 'may the hell you find be the fruit of your carefree attitude'. I think that's the translation from the French novelisation!)
> 
> *4 – marvellous, wonderful, etc.
> 
> *5 – good God


	15. Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie considers 'home' and learns something new about 'James Kidd'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yiiiikes. Sorry for the long wait!

"Christ," bellows Kidd, "d'ye even realise what ye've _done_?"

Darío and Seagrave share an unconcerned look.

" _Sí_ ," says the Spaniard eventually, lips curled in a half-smirk. "We did what had to be done."

Kidd looks ready to throw himself overboard. Amelie leans against the mast, watching the three men argue with a cheeky grin plastered on her face. She's still chuckling at Kidd's reaction to finding her in Seagrave's cabin, amused that her escape was pulled off without a hitch and right under the assassin's nose.

" _Christ_!" he'd gasped at her, clutching his heart and _staring_ for _ages_. Then there'd been panic and anger and he'd hollered for Seagrave and Darío as soon as their roaring chuckles had reached his ears.

"All I said was 'hi,'" Amelie had told the Seagrave and Darío, as they clutched their stomachs and laughed and _laughed_.

Darío claps Amelie on the shoulder now, grinning jovially, looking smug. "I still cannot believe we pulled it off, _cariña_."

The look Kidd fires at them is murderous. "Don't act so high and bloody mighty," he snaps. "You're not out of the woods yet."

"Well, I'm not so sure of that," quips Seagrave cheerily. "I'd say we're fairly clear."

" _Capitan_ Kenway will hardly know where to find us," chips in the Spaniard. He hooks an arm around Amelie's neck, drawing her in for a quick and sloppy kiss on the cheek. "Good riddance to him!"

She can't share the sentiment and feels only like she's sinking into the sea below her. She feels guilt in overwhelming waves; guilt for betraying the trust Edward had started to gift her, guilt for betraying Seth in the way she did. Thinking about it does nothing but make her feel worse. The Jackdaw had become a wacky second family, in a way – _you're one of the first_ – and Amelie can't help but feel like the news of her flying from their nest will not be taken lightly.

There's no other word to describe what she's done, she knows; she's _abandoned_ them.

"Really, Jim," pipes up Seagrave casually. "You're creating a storm out of a small wave, my friend."

A muscle ticks in Kidd's jaw as he whirls to stare accusingly at Amelie. "Kenway ain't gonna take this lightly."

"I don't expect him to," she replies. "He's made it very clear that he'd never let me go without a fight."

Kidd pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, sighing tiredly. "Ye really have no idea what ye've done," he says again.

Seagrave lays a hand on Kidd's shoulder, comfortingly, firmly. "We did what had to be done, Jim. Nothing more and nothing less."

" _Sí_ ," pipes in Darío jollily. "Amelie belongs on Tulum, with _us_. Not on some pirate crew with a _scoundrel_ of a man."

"You're the worst one," Kidd accuses. " _You_ planted this damnable idea in 'er bloody 'ead!"

"I did what had to be done!"

"Well, it's all for naught, ye daft bastard!" Kidd snaps. He pauses, controls his anger as Amelie straightens, pushing off the mast and frowning at the other Assassin. "If Kenway wasn't already comin' after us, he bloody well would be with this ridiculous stunt!"

There's a pause, no sound between the four of them but the creaking of the mast and the whipping sails.

Then Amelie asks, her mouth suddenly very dry, "What do you mean he's _already_ coming after us?"

"I invited him to Tulum," Kidd reveals at length. "I want 'im to see what we're up against 'ere."

"Then you are mad," snaps Dario. "Ah Tabai will have him killed before he even sets foot on the island!"

"No, he won't." Kidd sounds confident in this. "Amelie and I are going to talk t' the Mentor and stop that from 'appenin'."

" _Oh_?" Amelie's hands clench into fists. " _OH_?"

With an aggravated huff, Amelie strides away, chin in the air and a storm in her step, adamantly refusing to herself to do _anything_ Kidd asks of her. She won't talk to Ah Tabai and convince him of Edward's worth, not when she's not sure she can even see it herself. What had Kidd seen in the man that he thinks he can _invite_ him to Tulum, to their stronghold, to their _sanctuary_?

"Amelie," Kidd calls. "Amelie! Stop, will ye? Talk t' me."

"There's nothing to say," she snaps.

"There _is_." He takes her by the elbow and leads her to Seagrave's cabin, to privacy and a long-awaited discussion. "Things're tense 'tween us, we need to fix it."

Amelie rolls her eyes. She's tired of trying to fix problems with these people when the only thing she _really_ wants is to find Esme and go home. Why bother fixing problems with Kidd when, if Amelie could get her way _tomorrow_ , she might be home in a month or so? Why fix a _problem_ when she'll never meet the man – _um_? – ever again? Why should she worry about Edward's opinion of her, about staying on his good side, about him hunting her for knowledge he wants that she doesn't have?

"There's nothing to say," she repeats.

"I was led t' believe ye had a deal with Kenway," Kidd says. He leans against Seagrave's desk, fixes her with a pointed look. "He seemed to think the two of ye were taking steps forward."

She sighs, twists her hair between her fingers. "We might have been."

"What made ye leave?" Kidd takes in the distant look that comes across her, her body shifting from side to side as she moves her weight from foot to foot. Realisation in his tone, eyebrows raised in understanding, he mutters, "Ah."

Amelie swallows, folds her arms across her chest to feign confidence. "Esme needs me."

"Ye don't even know where the lass is." He doesn't say it cruelly, only factually. "For all ye know, she could be on the other side of the world."

"Then that's where I'll go."

Amelie goes to Kidd, leans against Seagrave's desk with him and watches the sea through the lightly glazed window. Kidd huffs beside her, shoulders slumping as he rubs a hand down his face. Curiously, he stands to adjust the neck of his shirt, popping buttons and tugging it open slightly. Amelie's eyes are drawn momentarily to the stretch of tanned skin at the hollow of his neck, the defined collar bone she can just see buried under layers of fabric.

She turns her eyes away, kicks at a scratch in the floor. "I've made a right mess, haven't I?" she ponders aloud.

"Aye," Kidd agrees. He fixes her with a dark stare; they're standing close enough that Amelie's tempted to soothe her aches and pains, to lean forward and press her lips to those thin ones. Kidd sighs, drawing her from those thoughts with the question, "Who is this woman to you?"

Amelie looks away, tucks a stray curl behind her ear. "My best friend," she admits. She loosens her jacket, following Kidd's lead and stripping herself of it. Once it's hooked over the back of Seagrave's desk chair, she continues, "I wasn't there for her when she needed me."

_Instead I was with Desmond, chasing his death_.

"Ye can't be everywhere at once," Kidd says. "From what I gather of the..." he pauses, wets his lips and swallows, "...the _future_... ye seem t' be up against it."

Amelie stops kicking the scratch in the floor. "Through no one's fault but ours," she mutters. She runs both hands through her tangled hair. "Esme's never been a..." _a killer_ , she wants to say. Esme was studious and bookish, intelligent and introspective, passive and peaceful. The words won't come so Amelie settles for admitting what she tells herself when things get hard, when she makes the difficult choices, when she _makes a mess_. "She needs me."

And Kidd replies without hesitation, "So do we. So does Edward."

Cynically, pushing herself away from Kidd, Amelie scoffs, "No, he doesn't." She rolls her eyes. "He needs what he _thinks_ I have."

"I can convince Edward to join us," says Kidd insistently. "He'll speak with the Mentor and realise –"

"Edward's cares about no one but himself," Amelie butts in, "and the Mentor might not be so quick to forgive what happened in Havana."

Kidd's expression sobers. "A mistake made a lifetime ago," he says, though his voice sounds strained. "He can learn from that." At Amelie's disbelieving scoff, Kidd adds, "Just like you 'ave."

Her expression darkens and she looks away, glowering. Frustrated tears prick at her eyes, blinked away rapidly and hidden. Tears are not to be seen by others, she thinks, a sign of weakness that can be utilised by enemies and allies alike.

_You cannot let them see_ , her mother used to tell her, when she was teased relentlessly by the other initiates. _We are Crawley's and we endure. You must endure_.

Amelie runs her thumb over those words now, the black ink of the tattoo hidden just below the cuff of her sleeve. _The family motto_ , the words passed down from her great-something grandmother until they inevitably reached her. How she'd scoffed and scorned them, how she _hates_ them and the weight they force her to bear.

"You don't have to do this alone, Amelie," Kidd says. He's closer now, one long-fingered and rough-skinned hand laid gently on her shoulder. "We'll find Esme _and_ the Observatory – but ye have t' _trust_ us."

She takes Kidd's hand in hers, holding tight to the slender fingers. She sighs, the sound yearnful even to her own ears; she's reminded of Lucy, of cold and long nights spent researching and worrying, of cold tea spilled over papers, of fresh mugs and reconciliations after loud arguments.

Thinking of Lucy reminds her of Desmond, of Juno, of the _war_ , of the _casualties_.

"Sometimes I think it's better to be," she tells Kidd. She releases his hand, shakes it off her shoulder. "I'm going to sleep."

Kidd nods, doesn't complain about the time of day like she expects him to. He makes for the door, boots thudding against the wood beneath his feet.

She lies awake, lost and alone through her own choice, and visualising the path ahead of her as full of curves and hills, rough to walk upon but a path nonetheless.

* * *

"Amelie!"

She's swept off her feet and spun before she has a chance to turn and answer; Aapo hardly breaks a sweat as he lifts her, his large arms rippling and rife with prominent veins and when he sets her down, it's to give her a chance to breathe before he's tugging her close again.

"We heard about Havana," he says, as Kidd climbs elegantly from the longboat behind her. "We feared the worst."

"The worst came to pass," Kidd puts in. He claps Amelie on the shoulder in passing, the first _real_  contact the two have had in weeks. "Where's the Mentor?"

Aapo waves noncommittally towards the forest, and the path winding through the dark trees. "Where he always is." As Kidd sets off, leaving them alone, Aapo notes, "You seem troubled."

Amelie sighs. "Kidd's invited someone here," she reveals. "Ah Tabai won't like it."

An arm around her shoulders, Aapo starts to lead Amelie towards the path, in the direction Kidd had disappeared. "Who?"

" _Ese cabrón bastardo_ *1!" snaps Darío, storming past them. Aapo frowns, blinking owlishly at the Spaniard's back as he takes off after Kidd, weapons clunking and dark, curls of hair bouncing.

"Kenway," explains Seagrave, coming to join their conversation. He stands on Amelie's other side, wiping sweat from his brow. As Aapo nods sagely, Seagrave continues, "Kidd has invited the man here."

"Foolish," says Aapo. "Has he explained why?"

"He wants him to see what we're up against," Amelie recites. The words have been playing in a loop in her head since Kidd said them, despite the distance she has put between herself and the other assassin.

"He will be up against the Mentor's blade," Aapo returns darkly. "That man is not welcome here."

"Kidd will not listen," Seagrave mutters. He side-eyes Amelie. "Though I daresay he will not be missed when the Mentor ends his sorry existence."

A strange feeling comes over Amelie then; she tenses under Aapo's arm and finds the ground under her feet suddenly very interesting. She finds no joy in the thought, no relief, but she can find no voice to defend the man she's spent the last year with. Kidd seems sure that there's goodness in Edward somewhere, hope that the man might make amends for the mistakes he's made, for the damage he's caused to the Assassins.

Amelie's not sure about Edward making amends but she can grudgingly admit that there _is_ some goodness inside him.

_Hidden_ , she thinks to herself, _deep, deep down_.

The man gave her a room in his manor, after all, and she can't deny that she'd grown to tolerate ( _enjoy_ ) his company during the quiet. He must have thought the same, she believes with no little amount of guilt, if his words when he gave her the room are anything to go by.

_Stop us from feeling like we need to kill one another every damn day_.

She's ruined everything.

"Christ," Seagrave mutters. "What's happened here?"

Aapo barely glances over but Amelie's eyes are transfixed; faces stare back at them, shadows under eyes and slumped bodies. Amelie feels a dark cloud hanging over the island, anticipation of something bad to come.

"We are waiting," Aapo reveals.

"For what, man?" demands Seagrave, as men and women trudge past him, checking weapons and armour. "You look like you're ready for a funeral."

"It is only a matter of time," says the Mayan Assassin. "Ah Tabai knows it, as do we all."

"You're expecting an attack?" Amelie asks, brows furrowed. "But..."

"This place has gone unseen for years, Aapo," Seagrave argues.

"That was before Walpole's treachery." He eyes the top of the hill, where Kidd and Ah Tabai stand before the water of the crumbling temple. He repeats, "It is only a matter of time."

"We should move then," Amelie starts. She's thinking of the Farm, of moving from Brotherhood to Brotherhood, London to Paris to Madrid. She recalls lessons in the backs of trains, her mother gently encouraging her. "We shouldn't stay here now that we're compromised."

"Where would we go?" It's Robert who asks, breaking his serious greeting countenance to open his arms to her. She hugs him gratefully, though confusion lingers in the back of her mind; the year she'd been here, she'd never felt at home, never felt truly accepted by them, yet she's returned to them now and they receive thankfully. It reminds her of Rebecca and Shaun and Esme, of coming back from long and difficult and tiring missions to them, to hugs and relieved sighs, happy exhales of her name, just her name, before the calm ends and the fight begins anew.

"The Mentor is seeking a new home for us," Darcy tells her. She picks at Amelie's hair critically, the messy knot it's become. "But the options are very limited."

Amelie thinks of San Inagua, Edward's island hideout, and ruminates on how perfect it would be. She thinks of Masyaf and Monteriggioni and Rome, of the Homestead and the Sanctuary – Tulum doesn't feel like any of them, too open now, unprotected. She feels useless in the face of this question, unable to answer. In 2013, the options are sparse, the threats real and there are so many safe houses compromised that staying alive is becoming more and more difficult every day. Here, in 1716, there should be more, shouldn't there?

"Our enemies are spread thick where we are spread thin," Robert says, reading her thoughts on her face. "We do not even have a spare force to send to warn Opía and Antó, or any of the others."

"Surely there's another Brotherhood stationed –"

Aapo shakes his head. "This blow to our secrecy is a strong one," he says lowly. "Every bureau in the West Indies is compromised."

_Walpole really wanted to destroy them_ , Amelie thinks. _None of this would have happened if he'd been killed by a better man_.

A promise of a reward had tempted Edward into his ruse and he'd delivered the Brotherhood's destruction willingly. A man like that does not deserve redemption, Amelie's mother would tell her, and Amelie is tempted to believe her. A man like that cares for himself and no one else, cares not for the damage he leaves in his wake.

A man like that invited Amelie to live with him, in hopes to create a partnership.

"If the Mentor does not kill that bastard," Seagrave says, his words a warning, "I imagine someone else will."

She leaves them shortly after, passing Blaine on the way to her hut; it's cold and dim, exactly like she left it. Her bag is still on the floor, cold to the touch when she reaches for it, empty save for ammunition for weapons she no longer carries. It's lighter without Esme's journal, lighter without the Kukri she used to have strapped to her thigh always – the blade, passed down through her family, lost to the sea when she tumbled through time.

She can't remember what it felt like to wield it, can't remember the weight of it in her hand, the confidence it brought to know that she wasn't the first to have it, that her life wasn't the first the blade helped save.

_Bit weird, isn't it?_ She can still hear Desmond's voice though, asking question after question about her life, about her family, about the line of Assassin's she's descended from. _Not very subtle_.

_You'd be surprised how easy it is to hide in plain sight_ , she'd told him. He'd still been a novice in her eyes, two Animus sessions into Ezio's life and with only a fraction of the skills he'd had at the end. She hadn't seen what the fuss was about with him – how many nights had she spent lazing about with Shaun, complaining about and mocking him? How many nights had she gotten drunk with Shaun after the end, mourning the man and reminiscing of all the _good_  he'd achieved?

She kicks the bag aside as she throws herself onto her small cot, pushing those thoughts aside. She loved him but not as much as he loved Lucy, not enough to save him. Love is hard and horrible and worthless, a pain she's endured and continues to endure, and for what? Everyone she loves is dead or missing or in the future she can't get back to.

She can hear Desmond again, hear him saying the words tattooed on her wrist, feel his forefinger as he'd followed the cursive. _We endure_. _Sounds like a Game of Thrones motto_.

Amelie had been so surprised that he'd found time to even _see_ Game of Thrones that she'd not bothered to correct him.

She lifts her arm and drops it over her eyes, shielding her tears from the sight of any who might walk past her hut and muffling already quiet sobs. _Cannot let them see_ , she thinks, as confusion and sorrow blend into one. How impossible this fight seems, how helpless she feels being here, in the West Indies, in 1716, when the real fight is taking place in 2013, three lifetimes away. How far away she feels, how alone, and oh, how she aches to scream her sorrow aloud.

And how confused she feels, with no one to confide these thoughts in, no one to _trust_. Her trust in people had been fractured when she'd discovered Lucy's treachery, when she'd started to wonder if the woman had been feeding back information about Amelie's ancestors to Abstergo, to _Vidic_ himself. Those fractures had worsened after her misplaced trust in Walpole, after his thievery of her story and Esme's.

She thinks of the trust she's broken, the friends she's made and lost in pursuit of a helpless quest. Seth and Donoghue, and Willie and Paddy, the Jackdaw crew who'll no doubt see her as nothing but a deserter, who she doubts will ever trust her again – if she were ever to see them again.

And Edward, who _gave her a room_ in his home in hopes that they could _take steps forward_.

_I've made a right mess, haven't I_?

Angrily wiping her eyes does nothing but encourage more tears.

_You need to trust us_ , Kidd had told her, though the man himself breathes secrets and exudes a mystery. _You need to trust us_ , as if they trust her in return. Do they?

She sits up, leans her elbows on her knees as she hides her face behind her hands, hurriedly wipes at her red and blotchy eyes as a throat clears by the door. Kidd can see her clearly, can see the state she's in, but still he waits patiently for her to pull herself together.

"Yeah?"

There's concern hidden deftly behind indifference. "You alright?"

"Fine." She clears her throat and wipes at her nose. "What did Ah Tabai say?"

Kidd seats himself on her cot next to her, curiously starts loosening his shirt again. "Say the word," he says, "an' I can get us some rum."

"That's tempting," she answers. Her eyes are drawn again to the stretch of tanned skin of Kidd's collarbone. She follows his hands as he unties the red bandana ever present on his head.

"The Mentor's agreed to meet Edward," he reveals at length, gauging Amelie's response.

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "Better watch out then," she mutters, "there are plenty of people here who'd love to see Edward's head on a pike."

"It won't get that far," Kidd defends. "You're not givin' the man enough credit. He's skilled enough."

"Skilled or not, that doesn't change what he's done."

Kidd's dark eyes scan over her face. "So that's what's troubled ye?"

"Doesn't matter what's troubled me." She pauses, unwinds her own bandana from her hair. She runs her hands through it, ruffles the dirty, limp strands.

"Is it Esme?"

She sighs. "Kidd-"

"Alright, alright," he relents, leaning back. Amelie wonders when he got so close, hates that she wishes he'd get closer. "Reckon Kenway'll be here within the month." He pats her on the back, rubs soothing circles on her shoulder when she tenses at the news. "Gives us some time to figure out our next moves."

"Any... _trust_ ," she stumbles over the word, "he and I might have had is history now." A strangled laugh escapes her throat. " _History_. Ha."

Kidd's lips curl into a smile. "True," he agrees. "Stay out of 'is sight, out of all their sights. Per'aps we can convince him Seagrave's taken ye off back to London. He won't follow."

All Amelie takes out of his plan is that Seagrave will be setting sail again. "Why can't I _actually_ go to London?" She's thinking of Esme, of her lost friend – is she in London?

Kidd nods, considering. "Not my choice to make," he says, "though Seagrave ain't goin' for a while yet." He pauses, tugging his shirt open a little further, fiddling with the beads he wears in his hair. "He ain't leavin' for London for another few months either – he's gotta go meet up with the British Brotherhood." He nudges Amelie in the side with his elbow. "If ye ask _nicely_ , I reckon ol' Newt would ask about for Esme for ye."

Amelie understands perfectly – she's not to leave the West Indies, not yet anyway. Maybe it's the emotional output she's already had that prevents her arguing, that has her sighing tiredly instead. Maybe it's the loneliness she feels, the mess she thinks she's in, that has her turning to Kidd quietly, has her realising that he's close to her for a reason too, and has her surging forward to press her lips to his.

He jerks away but Amelie still feels his soft lips on hers and she aches for more.

"Amelie." He's backing away, getting to his feet. He's grasping the red bandana in his hand in a white-knuckled grip. "Ye really don't want –"

"I do," she interrupts. It's familiar to Walpole while at the same time different; she's in control here, almost begging for him to touch her, desperate for a distraction.

"No, Amelie, _really_ -"

"Come _on_ , Jim," she says. He backs away further as she starts to get to her feet. "What's the worst that can happen?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Plenty."

"Come on." Amelie wishes she was drunk so that this wouldn't feel as embarrassing as it is. "You'll be off after Edward gets here and so will everyone else. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Amelie, _really_ ," Kidd tries again. "I'm fairly certain I can't satisfy ye the way you're wantin' me to."

She sighs agitatedly. "Fine. Whatever."

"Don't go sulkin'!" Amelie's looking away from him, rolling her eyes, angry and frustrated and _lonely_. She hears rustling, hears belts hitting the floor, sees a splash of red out the corner of her eye as he shifts. Finally, he demands, "Amelie, _look_."

With another roll of her eyes, she does.

" _Oh_." She blinks- once, twice. Heat rises up her neck and her cheeks _burn_. "Well that explains things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – That bastard Captain!


	16. Imminent Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘ _People need people_ , Esme told her once, in the peace of midnight where they could forget about the war and all they’d lost. _Now more than ever_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... _yikes_. sorry for the wait! 
> 
> also! my next one-shot in [missing pieces](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9949889/chapters/22269680) is an Amelie one, set pre-Hurricane and everything, lighthearted and - * _gasp_ * - fluffy!

"I didn't..." Kidd frowns, does up his- _her_ shirt again. "I didn't want ye to find out this way."

Amelie licks her lips. "Right. Yes. I can imagine how... um, embarrassing this is for you."

Kidd's cheeks are tinged pink, Amelie's are burning. Kidd shifts on her feet, carefully straps her hidden blades back onto her arms. Amelie's remembering her hands pushing against her chest, remembering how un-flat it had felt – it's all seems so obvious now.

" _Merde_ ," she mutters. To Kidd, she says, "How the hell have you managed to pull it off for this long?"

Kidd shrugs, gives Amelie that same crooked smirk. She pulls her hair from the bun at the back of her head, shakes it loose. "Men are stupid," she explains. "If it ain't booze, they ain't payin' attention."

Amelie concedes the woman's point with a nod, huffs a disbelieving laugh. "It's so obvious now!"

Kidd sits on her bed again, laughing with her. "It's easy to hide what ye ain't lookin' for."

Embarrassment has worn away into confusion. "But I thought..." Amelie pauses, clears her throat. "Why hide?"

"Ye think I could get half of what I've got done showin' off my tits?" She shakes her head. "Ain't no man in the West Indies will take orders from a woman."

Amelie considers. "What about Thatch or Hornigold? Edward said that..." Mentioning Edward gives her pause. She adds, quietly, unsurely, "Edward would listen to you."

Kidd nods. "That's why I invited him here." She reaches out slowly, long fingers curling around Amelie's palm. It's a small, comforting gesture that Amelie appreciates – she could almost burst into tears right there. "Kenway'll be here within in the month, Amelie."

"I know."

"He's a good man," Kidd tells her. "I know he is."

"No, he isn't," Amelie says. There's a pause until Amelie angrily concedes, "but he could be." _If he wasn't so damn greedy_.

"We give 'im a cause to fight for," Kidd agrees. "He'd be a powerful ally to have."

"A dangerous one to have."

"He's already dangerous." Kidd pauses, sighs. "I know you're wary of trustin' anyone else but... I believe ye can trust him."

Amelie scoffs. "He'd use what I tell him against me." She shakes her head. "Or he'd want to know something about the future and I can't... I've already lost too much here, Kidd. Put too much at stake."

"Mary," Kidd says. At Amelie's questioning hum, she elaborates, "My name's Mary Read."

Amelie grins, thrusts a hand out towards the woman. "Amelie Crawley." She feels a little goofy but she goes through with it anyway. "Nice to meet you, Mary."

Mary laughs but takes her hand nonetheless. "And you, Amelie."

"So who else knows?"

"Almost everyone," Mary answers. "Though I reckon it's slipped Darío's mind. The man could barely walk straight when he found out."

It's smart, Amelie thinks, the only way a woman can survive in the life, the only way a woman can rise up in this life. She could never do it, never hide who she is like this but she admires Mary's courage – even if she thinks it's awful that her sex would determine whether men follow her or not.

"What about Nassau?" she asks. Amelie leans back against the wall of her hut, feet kicked up off the floor. Mary doesn't join her. "Anyone from there know?"

Mary shakes her head. "Though sometimes I wonder if Thatch suspects."

Amelie bobs her head in concession. "He does seem to know more than he's letting on."

"It's the beard, I reckon," Mary adds seriously. "The more secrets he collects, the longer it grows."

 _That's why her hair is so big_ , Amelie thinks, barking a laugh aloud, _it's full of secrets_. She remembers she'd been surprised that Desmond had found the time to watch some episodes of _Game of Thrones_. He'd been horrified to learn that Amelie had seen _Mean Girls_.

More than once.

But she remembers quite suddenly that it's been so long since she's been to Nassau, so long since she's seen Ben Hornigold and Ed Thatch, that the news of Thatch growing a beard at all is new to her. He didn't appear to have the face for it, she recalls; he'd been friendly and polite and kind-looking, with his heart on his sleeve, despite her first impressions of him from afar.

Still, she knows she recognises the name, recognises _something_ about Ed Thatch.

"Well, now," Mary sighs. She presses a hand against Amelie's thigh as she rises, squeezes lightly. "I suppose I'd best be gettin' off to bed now."

Amelie reaches for her hand as she rises, laces their fingers together. "Mary," she says softly. She brushes her tangles of hair from her face with her free hand, feeling lighter, feeling _better_. "If we had... you know. It wouldn't have been the first time."

Mary's surprised, eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline. She flounders for words, tongue-tied and so flustered that Amelie grins at her retreating back when she quickly ducks out of the hut.

* * *

Amelie takes Kidd's advice a few days later, lounging on the deck of the Gypsy and basking in the searing sun. Darío's lounging across from her, streaked out below the main mast with a bottle of rum set between his legs; Seagrave stands by Mary, the two of them standing side by side. Amelie's fascinated by Mary's ease at dropping her façade now – a slight breeze disturbs her dark hair while she twists the beads in her hair between her thumb and forefinger. Aapo, arms folded and staring at Darío with a dark and unimpressed expression, hovers nearby, though the Spaniard pointedly ignores him.

Amelie takes a deep breath, her grasp tightening around the neck of the bottle Darío gave her.

"I'm from the future," she blurts out.

Silence is her answer. She regrets speaking immediately. Through her tangled hair, she peers at Darío, Aapo and Seagrave in turn, waiting, _waiting_. She watches Seagrave swallow, watches him look to Mary for guidance, watches her nod once.

 _People need people_ , Esme told her once, in the peace of midnight where they could forget about the war and all they'd lost. _Now more than ever_.

Amelie's ruminated on those words for days, ever since the discovery that James is Mary, ever since the realisation that she's earned the other woman's trust. Amelie doesn't think she deserves it, not after the problems she's caused for the woman, the arguments they've had, but it makes her heart feel lighter nonetheless.

 _People need people_.

Seagrave clears his throat. Darío has sat upright, downed the last of his rum, and is searching achingly for another bottle. Amelie offers hers and watches the man down half the bottle before stopping for air. Aapo is still too silent.

Mary folds her arms across her chest. "Tell 'em more, Amelie," she advises gently. "Start from the beginnin'."

The words pour out – she draws out Esme's pendant from under her shirt, the weight so familiar she'd almost forgotten she was wearing it. It's passed from person to person, inspected and admired, as Amelie rants about the lost journal, about her carelessness in losing it, about the Temple and the ocean and Esme, lost before it all began.

Darío studies her. Finally, he deduces, "You are drunk, _cariña_."

"She hardly touched that bottle," Aapo cuts in. His arms, folded across his chest and glistening with sweat, seem larger somehow. He turns his severe expression to Darío. "It is you, brother, who is drunk."

"Pro'ly," Darío concedes. He streaks out across the deck again, a closed fist shielding his eyes from the burning sun.

"I appreciate your honesty, sister," Aapo says at last, "and I will defend your secret with my life."

"I will speak with my contacts in London," adds Seagrave. There's nothing in his expression to betray disbelief or hurt. "If Esme has found her way there, I will find her for you." He strides towards her, boots clipping. He takes her hand in his. "You will find her yet, my friend. I promise you that."

She cannot cry, she _cannot_. They take in her watery smile anyway; Mary stands at Seagrave's shoulder beaming proudly. She nods her approval at Amelie but kicks Darío in the shoulder when he groans his embarrassment and grief aloud.

" _Sí, sí_ ," sighs the man eventually. His hand rockets out and his fingers almost catch Amelie in the eye; he tugs her down by a curl of her hair, looks deeply into her eyes, and asks her, "Is there still rum in the future, _cariña_?"

She nods once.

He sighs in relief. "Good."

Mary clears her throat. Darío has passed out.

"Perhaps it is in all of our best interests to remind him of this conversation come morning," Seagrave suggests, while Aapo bends and hauls the man off the deck of the ship. "Aapo, good man, please hang him over the side. My crew will be quite displeased if they return to his mess. Again." He claps her on the shoulder as she rises. "I promise, Amelie. You are not alone anymore."

" _Cállate, capitán_ ,*1" throws in Darío sluggishly from the gang-plank. He's green in the face and ready to vomit – Aapo, while still holding the man up, is wearing a distasteful expression and looks ready to drop the man at a moment's notice. "You will make her cry with silly words like that."

She's grateful to him, because her laugh is watery and her sob relieved, and it's all forgotten about when the Spaniard retches loudly and vomits over the side of the Gypsy.

* * *

There's still no sign of Edward and the Jackdaw, but the dread of his imminent arrival hangs over the heads of all on the island.

Amelie, in particular, replays the events on San Inagua in her head. They replay in a loop, an awful movie that she can't seem to pause or stop or forget; Seth's face, the _betrayal_... God, she messed it all up with them.

"But ye 'ad good reason," Mary begrudgingly admits one night. The fire crackles softly next to them, adding heat to an already stuffy Caribbean night.

"They don't know that," says Amelie softly.

"They will." Mary nudges her in the side. "Come on, sad-sacks! Yer an Assassin! A _pirate_ Assassin! Those lads will be damn lucky t' 'ave ye back." She pauses, takes in Amelie's still upset expression. "An' hell, even if they don't want ye back, that's their damn loss, eh?"

"I suppose." Mary's words won't stop or dispel the guilt clutching her insides, nor the panic that descends and strangles her throat when she imagines seeing Donoghue again – he's Seth's closest friend on that ship, what on Earth will he have to say about all of it? Perhaps he'll finally see her the way she is – he was one of the first doubters that she tried to kill Edward, one of the last people to come round to the idea that perhaps she _knows_ what she's doing with the odd bracers on her arms, the ones so alike Edward's but so terribly different.

She grins, brushing her hair from her sweat-damped forehead. "None of them ever believed me," she admits softly.

"About what?"

"I told them once that I tried to kill Edward." She pauses to grin, to reminisce sadly. "They laughed at me." Seth was the only one who believed her without a shadow of a doubt. Her expression darkens as she takes a long drink from the bottle almost-forgotten in her hand. _Look where that belief got him_.

"Joke's on them." Mary gladly drinks from their shared bottle of rum. "Wait 'til they get 'ere."

"Hear, hear," Amelie says, though there is little enthusiasm in her words.

A moment of silence passes. Rum sloshes in the bottle as Mary's lifts it to her lips. She sets it down between her feet when Amelie waves the offer of more.

"Oi, Amelie," she starts. Amelie thinks she sounds unsure. "In your hut, couple a' days ago. Ye said it wouldn't be the first time – that true?"

Amelie shakes her head amusedly, laughing softly. "Yes, it's true." She gathers her hair in her hand and knots it at the crown of her head, the stuffy night air insufferable to the thick mass. She regrets not accepting Mary's offer, and reaches for the bottle now instead. After a _long_ drink, she admits, "Esme and I...a _long_ time ago."

Amelie doesn't like to think about that night often but not because she thinks of it as a mistake. Rather, _she_ made a mistake, a mistake that cost her friends their lives and what a familiar tale she weaves once more, she thinks. She rolls the dark glass bottle between her hands, watching the rum splash against the inside.

"Bill – my Mentor – he pulled me from a mission last minute," she confides, brows pulled together. "We were to infiltrate Abstergo – er, it's a Templar stronghold. They were holding his son and... _using_ him to find something." At the time, they hadn't known what the Templars were looking for, only that Desmond was important and they needed to risk everything to get him back. "The Templars _knew_ the team were coming... they slaughtered them all." She relishes the burn of the drink as it slides down her throat. "I should have been on that mission, I should have..."

"Likely you'd be dead too," says Mary sincerely yet matter-of-factly. She gently wrestles the bottle from Amelie's white-knuckled fingers. "Ain't yer fault, Amelie."

"I know."

Esme had been gentle and understanding, encouraging Amelie away as she'd screamed and raged at Bill. Shaun and Rebecca had been so quiet, watching forlornly as Amelie had screamed her grief and rage for them all to hear. Esme had listened in the dark, quiet room, had held her as her rage finally succumbed to tears, and indulged her in her need for comfort.

She shakes her head, dispersing those thoughts. "It's in the past now," she says.

Mary grins. "Much like you," she jokes.

Amelie laughs, the sound light and unusual to her ears. "That was bad, Mary."

"Cheered ye up though," she says rightly, a split-second before she leans forward and presses her lips to Amelie's. Her long fingers wind in Amelie's hair, tangled but right, and Amelie grasps the lapels of her coat and tugs her closer.

* * *

"He is here," announces Citlali three days. She's perched on a low-hanging branch, dark hair away from her face in a tight braid, and it's the first Amelie's seen of the woman in the week since her return to Tulum. She'd emerged from the trees in the morning, a ghost in the mist, nodded curtly as a greeting to Amelie, and announced that a ship flying a black flag and bearing the name Jackdaw had docked near the island. Her eyes now are narrowed and fixed on a thick bush sprouting purple flowers. "He is playing at stealth."

Amelie chuckles, shaking her head. "It fits, doesn't it?" she asks. She hopes Edward can hear her clearly. "He's playing at being as Assassin as well, after all."

Aapo cracks his knuckles, adjusts his grip on his spear. "I could run him through," he suggests, in a voice so light, Amelie hardly believes she's hearing it from the man. "Problem solved."

Amelie makes a showing of considering it but reluctantly tells him, "Kidd wouldn't see it that way." She just barely remembers to use Mary's alter-ego's name, knowing the secret she's been entrusted with and knowing that the other Assassins can sense Edward sneaking through the foliage around them.

The top half of her hair is wound into a knot atop her head, the rest cascading down her back and still damp from her earlier dip in the river with Mary. She fiddles with the hidden blade on her left hand, watches the blade pop out and back again, feigning nonchalance as she checks the mechanism. She can feel his eyes on her, feel him watching her.

"He is gone," Aapo says moments later. He's staring at something past Amelie's shoulder – Edward, she realises, when she turns and spies a swatch of white disappearing into the trees.

Citlali hops off her perch, lands gracefully on the ground under her bare feet. "We should inform the Mentor immediately," she tells Aapo in a low voice. To Amelie, she says, "I trust you can see yourself back to the village."

"Of course."

Aapo claps her on the arm, dips a little to meet her eyes. "Take care, sister," he says softly. "Keep your eyes open for snakes in the grass."

She nods. "You, too."

She watches them disappear into the thick trees before beginning the trek back alone; Edward will meet Kidd at the temple, Amelie knows, remembering what Mary had told her yesterday afternoon. There's a statue Edward needs to see – Mary hadn't elaborated any more than that.

The path to the village is quieter than Amelie expects, very little bodies along the dirt road than their should be...

She hears the rustle of leaves _too late_ , turns with only a fraction of a second to spare – _not enough_.

" _Lâche-moi, connard_ *2!" she gasps, winded from his attack, her back aching against the rough bark he's pushed her to. The leather braces on his arms smell of the salty wind from the sea, a scent that clung to Amelie's clothes when she'd arrived, a scent that clings to him still.

His other hand hovers close to her throat, the tip of his second hidden blade resting on her racing pulse. His eyes hold a storm, catching her in them and wrenching her around in a whirl of emotions; anger, _relief_?

"I ought to kill you, lass," he warns.

"I ought to kill _you_ ," she hisses back. "You don't belong here."

"Funny that," Edward snarls at her. "I thought the same thing about you."

"This _is_ where I belong." She shoves helplessly at him, freezes at the nick of sharp metal against her skin. "This is where I need to be." 

"Because of _Esme_ , right?" He says her name queerly, familiarly, like he's repeated it to himself over and over again until it's become second-nature to him. "You think the Assassins can help you where I can't?"

"You've proven yourself an unreliable ally, _Captain_."

"Only because you've proven yourself incapable of trusting me."

"Trust is a two-way street –"

"Aye, that it is, lass. Maybe you should listen to yourself instead of setting fire to bridges you might need in the future."

She doesn't have a retort for that, so instead settles for, "Fuck you, Kenway."

He smirks, leans back slightly with the knowledge that he's won their verbal spat. "Just say the word."

She snarls. "It's not my fault you thought we were _friends_."

A muscle ticks in his jaw; his eyes are suddenly ice cold. "Aye, that's true," he murmurs. "Fool me once."

Guilt plagues her instantly but the words have been said now – she can't take them back no matter her regret. Her eyes flicker to his collar, to the sun-tanned skin she can see, and the beaded necklace he wears. She's grateful for the distraction, grateful for something to focus on that's not her sweaty palms and dry mouth.

 _Damn, that was harsh_ , Esme would be saying right now. Amelie wants to snap at her even though she's not here.

 _I know it was_ , she wants to hiss, _I wouldn't feel so damn guilty if I didn't_!

Edward releases her, stepping back and sheathing his hidden blade. Amelie can't meet his eyes.

"Sorry," she says softly.

His answer is a noncommittal shrug. "S'pose I'd best be off," he says. "Reckon Kidd won't wait forever."

"Probably not," she agrees. She hesitates but finally hears herself say, "These are good people, Edward. Please don't hurt them."

"No more than necessary," replies the Captain. "I get the feeling I'm wanted dead by most."

"What did you expect?" Amelie demands. "You've never met them yet you _betrayed_ them! Did you _expect_  a warm welcome?"

His expression slackens but quickly turns into one of arrogance. "Must be doing something right then," he muses. She scoffs under her breath as he continues, "One hell of a reputation I'm getting out here."

 _Not a good one_ , _not here in any case_.

He half-turns, starting to leave, and Amelie's heart sinks indescribably. She's left him behind before, betrayed a friend to make sure it happened, so what's so different now?

"Be honest," he starts, looking at her over his shoulder. He's reaching for his hood, making ready to hide his face again, making ready to _pretend_ he might be one of them. "Was I too forward giving you that room?" He rolls his shoulders, shrugs, and tells her nonchalantly, "Never meant anything by it, lass."

"The room was fine," she admits. "Better than fine. Just..." _I couldn't stay_.

He nods, almost as if she'd said the words aloud or he'd plucked them from the air. Amelie swallows, uncomfortable under the weight of Edward's heated stare on her face.

 _Trust him_ , Kidd would encourage. _He's a good man_.

 _He isn't_. Her own words, echoed back at her. _But I think he could be_.

She takes a breath, hugs her arms close to herself, feeling a chill despite the scorching sun. "Esme needs me," she tells him.

"You hurt a lot of people leaving like that, Amelie." The words are said softly but his lips are pressed into a thin line, betraying his own anger, smothered but ever present. His shoulders rise and fall heavily with his sigh. Slowly, he nods, comments, "Suppose there's not a whole lot I can do to change your mind, eh?"

"Aside from kidnapping me, no, not really."

He grins, wiggles his eyebrows. "There's an idea."

Amelie's sure he's joking but there's an edge of unease to her words as she tells him, "You'd never make it to the beach."

He laughs lightly. "Would be worth the effort, I reckon."

Amelie rolls her eyes, but she's grinning. "Get outta here," she orders, waving him away. "Kidd's at the top of the hill."

"Oi," he cautions, "careful there, lass. I'm still your Captain."

 _No, you're not_ , but the words won't come. Amelie wonders if that means they're true. She watches him leave, ponders his words over as she makes her way back to the village – she's hurt a lot of people; he didn't need to tell her what she already knows. She's hurt him, broken their 'bargain' so often she wonders _why_ he hasn't killed her yet, up and left him after he did something nice, hurt a member of his crew in her escape...

 _Jesus_ , _Amelie_ , she thinks, and then, feeling silly even as the words weigh intimately on her heart, _you're a bloody fool_.

All she needs is an empty bar and a bottle of whiskey. The image, somehow, is soothing for her to imagine.

She dips under a nearby branch, her fingers brushing the leaves and the village within sight, and sees the red coats too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – Shut up, Captain.  
> *2 – Let go of me, bastard!


	17. History Has Its Eyes (On You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _The Crawley's have tempers._ Shaun's whisper to Desmond. _All of them._ "

"It's her."

A disgruntled sigh. A repeated statement even Amelie's getting tired of hearing.

"No, it ain't."

A boot heel ground into the soft dirt. "It _is_."

"You just sound daft – it ain't her!"

"I'm tellin' ya!" Their attention is off her but Amelie's wrists are bound so tightly her skin is starting to chafe. Her knees are aching from kneeling. "I've seen that odd painting Rogers' is carryin' around everywhere. It's her!"

_Painting_? She looks up at the two bickering soldiers, brow pinched but remaining silent. _What painting_?

"What if you're wrong, eh?" The older soldier fixes Amelie with a pointed look. "What if we get her all the way to Kingston and it's just some filly with a strange likeness?"

The younger soldier studies Amelie unnervingly closely. When she looks away, he wraps a hand in her hair and forces her head back; curls of her hair tangle in the buttons of his cuff and she winces as he tugs himself free.

" _Watch it_ ," she hisses, lip curled over her teeth in a snarl.

" _See_?" demands the younger. "Why would she be so defensive if it weren't her?"

" _All_ women are defensive around you, numb-nuts," snaps the older.

"Her hair's curlier," says the younger one insistently, ignoring him, "but it's _her_. I know it _is_!" He hooks a hand under her elbow and drags her to her feet. The older soldier reluctantly takes her other arm and follows the younger's lead.

"Alright," he sighs, "but I'm not explainin' this mess to Prins."

"Prins ain't important," says the other. Amelie digs her heels in to the dirt but they hardly seem fazed. "Rogers is the one huntin' high and low. We get her to Kingston and she ain't our problem anymore."

Amelie drops her weight, hoping to throw the two soldiers off – they shout in surprise as she tries to kick out at their feet as well, wrenching in their hands and struggling to throw them off, freezing only at the drawing of a pistol. The barrel is pressed to the middle of her back, it's wielder huffing angrily and close to her ear.

A huff of a sigh as she calms, resigned. The older solider looks at her with a pensive expression.

"Aye, well," muses the younger, seeing this. "That's certainly an odd reaction, aye?"

"Suppose anyone would react badly to be dragged unwillingly onto a slaver's ship," says the older, as they force Amelie forward again.

Amelie rakes her brain for the name, Prins, but can't recall vividly any conversations where the name has come up. She knows she's heard it before, though, knows that it's a name not thought of fondly amongst the Assassins – a target, perhaps. A target, she knows, whose ship she is about to be a captive aboard.

She spies Darcy and Robert, kneeling at the foot of the temple steps, wrists bound and musket guns trained unwaveringly on them. Blaine, further up the path, grits his teeth and vows vengeance on the soldiers when he sees her standing rigid between them and scowling a storm.

"Shut your hole," snarls one. "You're a traitor to the crown, you've no right to say anything."

"Says the man working for a Dutch slaver," bites back Blaine as Darcy warns him to shut his mouth. "Tell me, do you enjoy transporting human cargo? Does it make you feel more of a –"

Amelie renews her struggling as a cruel backhand sends Blaine to the dirt, spitting blood and saliva onto the ground before him.

" _Fils de pute_!*1" she shouts, wrenching forward, snarling as she's dragged back. " _Lâche_!*2"

Blaine spits at the soldier again, a large swab of blood and saliva that stains the man's boot. Amelie's enraged scream echoes off the trees as the soldier thrusts the butt of his gun into Blaine's temple; an arm around her neck forces her back and to still her thrashing. She writhes anyway, even as she's dragged back and away, through the trees towards the beach, screaming insults to the overcast sky and to the too-still sea.

"Oi, lads," hollers a voice and Amelie stills her thrashing. "Don't think that lass there belongs to you."

The older soldier stumbles forward a step, reaching a hand to his neck and dislodging a dart; he turns an accusing stare to Amelie, who grins smugly, and kicks out at his knee with all her strength. He staggers and falls and the younger soldier throws Amelie aside to go to his aid.

"What the hell?" he demands. Amelie struggles to her knees, staring down the barrel of his gun as he shakes the shoulder of his fallen comrade. Overhead, Kidd drops from the trees, a silent wraith stalking towards the last soldier with a dart in hand. A flick of his hand and the soldier jerks; Amelie ducks at the last second, the bullet from his flintlock whizzing part her ear and striking the bark of the tree over her shoulder.

" _Oh, Dieu merci_ *3," she whispers, as Kidd finishes off the sleeping soldiers and cross the path to her, slicing through the ropes that bind her with a single swipe of his hidden blade. "Rogers has something," she says as she rises.

"Aye, brass balls," answers Kidd, helping her stand. "Come on."

"Jim!" Amelie turns, spying Edward jogging towards them. He looks Amelie up and down, eyes her fingers that prod at the reddened flesh around her wrists. "You alright, lass?"

She pauses, considering, then finally answers, "No." Amelie rubs the red flesh of her wrists, wincing at the rope burn. "Those soldiers recognised me."

Edward reaches for her, laying a hand on her arm and squeezing gently. "How?" he asks.

"I don't know. They mentioned an odd painting or something." Her voice is quiet, betraying how rattled she truly feels now that she has the breathing room to consider the ramifications of this news. "It shouldn't be possible." She looks desperately to Kidd. "It shouldn't be _possible_."

"Why not?" Edward looks between the two of them. "Pretty lass like you, surely you've sat for a painting or two before?" He silently looks between Kidd and Amelie, trying to gauge from their troubled expression the problem they won't voice.

Kidd shakes his head. "Another time," he decides, walking away.

Amelie doesn't move until Edward calls her name, his brows furrowed in thought. Across his back is a blowpipe, much alike those she's seen the other Assassins wielding on the island.

She huffs a small laugh, anxiety turning into amusement. "One step closer to becoming one of us," she jokes as she passes him, flicking the blowpipe over his shoulder.

"Not on your life," Edward tells her. He cocks his head a second later. "Don't think these backwards sods could afford me anyway."

Amelie rolls her eyes. "Not everything is about money."

"Not everything is about loyalty either."

A jab at Amelie and the Assassins, Amelie and Esme, the Jackdaw's crew? She can't tell. She's not sure she wants to know.

Kidd keeps walking, reaching into his coat for a spyglass that he wields in his hand like a sword until they stop at the cliff edge. There's a man-o-war setting sail off the island, a large behemoth of a ship that reminds Amelie of the _El Arca del Maestro_ with its size and grandeur. Kidd passes the spyglass over to Amelie; she can't see much, a cluster of soldiers in red surrounding a man with a wide-brimmed hat. He's smaller and hidden from sight by all the red.

Kidd sighs heavily, shaking his head with his lips in a thin line. "Bloody 'ell..."

"Who's out there?" asks Edward, as Amelie passes over the spyglass.

"See that mangy old codger?" Edward nods curtly. "He's a Dutch slaver called Laurens Prins, livin' now like a king in Jamaica."

Edward hands the spyglass back over, peering at Kidd curiously as he leans forward and glowers, his eyes never straying the man-o-war and her large sails full of the wind. Kidd swipes the spyglass from Edward's hand, rising to stand, aggravated.

"Bastard's been a target fer years," he grumbles. "Bloody 'ell, we nearly 'ad him!"

Amelie pats Kidd's shoulder in silent comfort; a target slipping through her fingers is a familiar feeling to an Assassin, one they feel more often than victory.

"By God, you Bravos are a cheery bunch, eh?" asks Edward. Amelie turns, spies Ah Tabai approaching with Aapo and Citlali at his shoulders. Aapo does not hide the derisive expression on his face, his distaste for Edward willing prevalent, while Citlali blankly stares him down. "All frowns and furrowed brows."

"Captain Kenway," announces Ah Tabai, and something in his voice makes Edward pay attention, makes Amelie anxious. "You have remarkable skills -"

"Aw thanks, mate, it comes natural."

"- but you're churlish and arrogant, prancing about in a uniform that you have not earned." With every word, the Mentor steps forward to meet Edward, squaring up with the pirate. He's furious, Amelie notes, staring at Edward with narrowed eyes and barely concealed disgust and mistrust.

Edward's too relaxed for this confrontation, Amelie thinks, but the pirate in him would never let him show weakness.

Captain Kenway throws his arms out to the side, a smirk on his lips. " _Everything is permitted_ ," he recites. Amelie looks away when his sea-blue eyes flicker to her. "Isn't that your motto?"

Ah Tabai's lip curls. "I absolve you of your errors in Havana and elsewhere," he rumbles, "but you are not welcome here."

He leaves quickly, bare feet making no sound on the dirt path, and Kidd claps Edward on the arm before he follows.

"Sorry, mate," he says quietly. Amelie hears the sincerity in his voice as he makes to leave. "Wish it were otherwise." He nods to Amelie in passing. "Catch up with ye soon, Amelie."

"Of course."

It's quiet between the two of them for a good while, crickets chirping and birds singing overhead. Edward has turned to watch the man-o-war sail away, carrying their target far away from the Assassins, to safety, and to live another day.

"That's gratitude," he comments scornfully. "Do all the work and receive no reward."

"What did you expect?" Amelie asks disdainfully. "Maybe you don't deserve a reward for everything, Edward."

"Then why do anything at all?" he retorts, facing her imploringly.

"Because it's right?" Edward scoffs and turns away, shaking his head with his hands on his hips. "Not everyone will be able to _afford_ to pay you for helping them, Edward!"

"Then perhaps they shouldn't ask for my help at all."

Amelie's hands clench; she can't voice her rage nor incredulity, so settles instead for exhaling heavily in frustration and starting to leave.

"Well, suppose we don't have to worry about that," she snaps. "The people here already want your head on a damned pike, _Captain Kenway_. No one will be asking for your help anytime soon, I assure you of that. _Bonne nuit_.*4"

She's striding through the village seeking out Ah Tabai when she sees Seth, idling near the treeline with Pierre and Paddy, looking about him in wonder. He's darting back and forth, fidgeting as he tries to stay out of the way of the Assassins moving around him – but his eyes are alight with joy and curiosity that makes Amelie's heart ache.

That light dims when he sees her across the clearing, his smile slackening, and she hurries away before the guilt can rise from her gut to strangle her.

* * *

The crew of the Jackdaw have been granted – reluctantly – permission from Ah Tabai to resupply before they set off.

Amelie has taken to following Citlali's lead, climbing up trees and watching over the island and the sea, avoiding the crew she once thought might be her new family and waiting eagerly for the day they leave. Those who have spotted her have shot her dark, mistrustful looks, whispered to each other behind their hands like gossiping children and despite Amelie's strength in her judgement – _I did the right thing_ , she vehemently tells herself, _I did_ – she can't help the regrets that hang over her head like rainclouds.

Donoghue is the first to discover her hiding place, angrily striding after her as she grabs her bow and quiver from her hut and makes for her spot. He shouts her name – it echoes horribly around the village, humiliating – and stomps up to her furiously, his rage clear as day on his face despite the dangerous strangers Amelie is surrounded by.

_This is my family_ , she thinks, lifting her chin. _I was with you on the Jackdaw, but this is my place._ _Right here_.

Donoghue's hands are clenched at his sides, the first sign that Amelie should have readied herself beforehand-

Her cheeks explodes with pain after he sends her careening into the side of a nearby hut. She drops her bow and quiver from a grip turned loose with shock, and leans heavily on the hut as she looks over her shoulder at Donoghue. Around her, Assassins are straightening and readying, waiting for a word from her; over Donoghue's shoulder, a couple of members of the Jackdaw's crew snicker. Seth looks green and frightened, saying something she can't hear from this distance.

Amelie's ears are ringing. She sees red.

When Donoghue starts to turn, his lips curled and the rage still plain on his face, Amelie snarls at him and charges forward. Her punches are precise; the throat to choke, the abdomen to force the breath from his lungs, the back of the knee to imbalance. He strikes wildly and catches her shoulder. She grabs that wrist and forces the arm down, brings her knee up to strike at his stomach once more, elbows him in the nose, then the chest to force him back from her as she draws her arm away and activates her hidden blade.

The ringing in her ears starts to clear; the red she sees is clearing with it. The crew of the Jackdaw are eerily silent. Edward is standing feet away from them, standing over them where she is crouched over Donoghue, the tip of her hidden blade resting against the pirate's pulse. Her cheek is throbbing, the coppery taste of blood tainting her tongue and staining her teeth as she starts to rise.

_Control your dogs_. A refined accent and a bar; a brute of a man in a green and a woman in black.

_The Crawley's have tempers._ Shaun's whisper to Desmond. _All of them_.

_You are better than this, mon trésor._ Her mother's disappointment.

Awe or fear in Edward's expression, Amelie doesn't care to find out. Donoghue lies still, staring up at her with wide-eyes; Seth is nowhere to be found. Around her, the Assassins are ever-silent yet somehow supportive, waiting for a single word, a single move, a single call to action.

"Donoghue," Edward says. "On your feet, man."

Adéwalé emerges through the crew. Kidd appears at the foot of the stone steps to the temple. Donoghue brushes off his clothes and adjusts his shirt, heaving for breath, blood oozing from his nose and staining his shirt. She bares bloody teeth at him, a dare to try again, and instead feels weight like a thousand stones settle in her gut.

Horrified, Donoghue looks like he doesn't recognise her. Amelie realises he doesn't.

None of them do.

"Amelie," Kidd calls.

_I am not who you think I am_. Her eyes flit to Edward as Donoghue stumbles away, clutching his abdomen and nursing his nose. _This is who I am._

The Assassins return to their duties, turning away from the scene and muttering amongst themselves. Edward's face is blank of emotion, blank of _anything_.

_Isn't it_?

_You cannot let them see, mon trésor_ , her mother whispers. _We are Crawley's._

Her voice is steady as she speaks. "Keep your crew away from me." She hears herself as if through water; _your crew,_ as if she had not once began to consider those men friends and family. _This is where I belong, who I am,_ she had dared to think at Donoghue's advance, a weak mockery of confidence that slips like water through her fingers now.

Edward nods once. "They won't be bothering you anymore, lass," he tells her. "You don't need to worry about that." He turns his back on her.

_We endure_.

_Endure what_? Scorn? Fear? Mocking?

_We endure_.

_Stay alive, Amelie_. Esme's voice message, listened to long ago. _Be safe. I hope we meet again._

"The Crawley's have tempers," her mother told her over and over as a child. She'd lamented it to her when Amelie had gotten into fights, found something to prove to the other initiates. "It gets us into trouble."

Amelie had winced as her mother cleaned her wounds. "It gets us out of it, too."

"Don't let it control you."

"You make it seem like it's sentient, mama."

"Amelie," Kidd calls again. She hooks her quiver over shoulder and pointedly goes in the opposite direction from where he beckons.

* * *

"Didn't expect to see you before we set sail," Edward comments. He leans against the tree she's sat up against, her shade from the sun. He's amused that she's squinting up at him, unable to keep herself so serious with such a ridiculous expression on her face. The crew on the beach below are moving cargo to the ship; along the treeline, the Assassins watch diligently and distrustfully, hands on weapons and waiting.

"You came to see me," Amelie points out. Her coat is at her side as she basks in the sunlight, feigning nonchalance and ease. She hasn't stopped thinking about Donoghue and her temper, about how it flared so badly when she's worked so hard to stop that. She thinks about Havana, about shooting first, about Hana lying dead at her feet. "I was perfectly content sitting up here."

"Donoghue's fine," Edward tells her. "Wounded pride, is all. Nothing a few bottles of rum can't fix."

Amelie adjusts the collar of her shirt. "It's more than that."

"For you, maybe." Edward slides down the tree trunk to sit beside her. "He threw the first punch, lass, no one blames you for retaliating." He pauses. His hand hovers between them for a few seconds before he sets it on her knee; a show of comfort, she knows, when she deserves it least. "Daft bastard had it coming."

"That doesn't make me feel better," she mumbles honestly.

"Don't think on it," he tells her. "It's in the past now –" he frowns as Amelie's lips twitch "- and Donoghue's got it outta him." He squeezes her knee. "There's still a place for you on the Jackdaw."

Amelie's smile is sad. "I don't have anything for you, Edward," she tells him. "My place is here."

"Aye," he sighs. "Thought as much." He nudges her side. "Was worth the effort though, eh?"

"Ten out of ten for trying, Captain."

They rise together; Amelie adjusts her shirt as Edward looks upon the sea, upon his Jackdaw docked and waiting. The sun on his hair makes it appear golden, the sea so blue she thinks it more resembles his eyes than the other way around.

"So, this is it then?" They stand side by side, their arms brushing. "You'll stay here and find the Observatory with the Assassins?"

"Not everything is about the Observatory," she murmurs. "I have to find Esme. They're the most suited to ensure that happens."

He nods slowly. "Fair enough."

"I'm sorry, Edward."

He shakes his head. "It's a shame our partnership has to end," he admits, "but it was never much of a partnership in the first place, was it?"

"No, it wasn't," she agrees.

"Still." He pauses to sigh. "I was looking forward to those conversations in my manor. Don't see much of a reason in going back now."

"It's a nice place," Amelie tells him. "Someday you could settle down there."

"Aye," he muses. "Someday. When I've my riches and reputation."

"Well, of course."

They laugh together, their goodbye all the more bittersweet. It's odd, Amelie thinks, that she's spent so long hating him and wishing she could be parted from him, and now he's letting her go without anymore fuss. They're parting as unlikely friends, she thinks, not as captor and captive, not as sailor and captain, nor as Assassin and enemy.

She's going to miss him, she thinks now, because she might never see him again.

"Well, Amelie Crawley," he announces, his hand held out to her. "I wish you luck, lass."

Suspiciously, she takes it. "If I never see you again, Captain, it will be far too soon."

He grins. "Aye, let's hope, eh?"

His hands are calloused from sailing, exactly the way she'd imagined on the deck of the Jackdaws those months ago when Hornigold had taken her hand. His handshake is firm like his grip, a gentler handshake that the one they'd had when Amelie had returned to him after going AWOL on Nassau. He tugs her in gently, more hesitantly than he did then, and bodily hugs her before she can complain; his arms wrap around her tightly, reminding her of the bear hugs she used to receive from Desmond when he knew she needed the comfort. She buries her face in Edward's neck, his beard scratchy against her forehead and she wraps her arms around his back, clutching at leather straps and fabric alike.

"I hope you find her," Edward murmurs in her ear. "I hope she's worth it."

He draws back. Amelie doesn't have a reply; she should be angry, shouldn't she? A month ago she'd be angry, wouldn't she?

He nods one final time, starts to leave.

"Edward," she calls after him. He barely pauses, a turn of his head the only indication he's heard her at all. "There's more to life than riches and reputation, you know. Maybe one day, when you learn that, you can make your way back here." _Maybe one day you can learn that and I'll tell you the truth. Maybe one day you'll learn that and I won't be here to welcome you_.

"What an effect I must have had on you," Edward returns. He's grinning cockily but there's an edge to his words, "to so boldly encourage me to return to a place I'm not welcome."

"One day you could be," she says. She's thinking of Desmond, of his running from the farm and the life he was always meant to lead. She's thinking of Esme, of her mistakes that thrust her into the danger, never to be safe again.

_Once you're in this life, there's no leaving it. Once you've discovered the war, you will always be a part of it._ Amelie had repeated those words to Esme, her mother's words that had stilled Amelie's movements when she'd tried to go after Esme after her phone call. _Choose your side_.

_He's a good man_ , Mary had told her.

_He isn't_ , Amelie had said. _But he could be_.

A hopeless wish, she wonders, or a genuine belief?

She stands and watches until the Jackdaw sets sail, her white sails full with the wind and her anchor hoisted, her Captain at her helm. She watches and she wonders and she worries; what if Edward sets sail for some island the Assassins won't send her to, what if he meets Esme and doesn't know her? What if he meets her and she spills all? Would he return to Tulum, to this island where Ah Tabai as condemned and excluded him, where the Assassins would gladly have his head, or would he leave her there?

Has she made a mistake remaining with those who follow her beliefs?

"Where other men blindly follow the truth," her mother had recited, strapping Amelie's hidden blades to her arms, staring blankly at Amelie's face. How had she felt, to induct her own daughter into the life she had prepared her for years? There had been no proud beaming, no grinning of a proud parent; only tense shoulders and pinched brows, an indifferent mask on a woman whose idea of love was to wake Amelie at the crack of dawn and urge her into action.

_Nothing is true –_

"Where other men are limited by morality or law..."

_\- Everything is permitted_.

"Isn't that your motto?" asked Edward arrogantly, as if it justified his reckless and foolish actions, his greed.

It doesn't, the others say, the Creed does not justify that – but doesn't it? Doesn't it justify Amelie's need to find Esme, to set things right, to return _home_?

She watches the Jackdaw, the bird on the sea, and wonders.

* * *

"If the Templars know of your presence here, they were surely send more soldiers to us." Ah Tabai is stern-faced and thunderous, begging her to listen to him when all Amelie can hear is a betrayal. "I cannot risk your life and the lives of the men and women who call this place their home."

"Then we cannot stay here, Mentor!" The word is bitter on her tongue – Mentor, what mentor has he ever been to her? Her mother taught her all she knows, all she understands. "You must find another island, somewhere _else_. They'll just keep coming here –"

"Yes, they will," agrees Ah Tabai. Over his shoulder stands Aapo, silent and stern like his Mentor. "And the more they come, the weaker we will get, until they will surely succeed in acquiring what they wish for."

"I can fight," Amelie insists. "You know I can. And I will _die_ before I let them capture me."

"I do not doubt it. But these are my orders: sail to the Cayman Islands and seek out Opía Apito. Warn her of the danger she is in, protect her from it if you must."

"But why?" Amelie asks. "Surely she can –"

"The maps Captain Kenway sold to the Templars reveal the locations of our agents to them," Ah Tabai explains. "You must warn her."

"What about Mary?" Amelie knows a losing battle; Ah Tabai is sending her from Tulum to protect his people, something she can't fault him for, but she's losing a home she had just begun to settle in. "Is she coming too?"

"Mary set sail this morning, Amelie," Aapo puts in. "For Kingston, and Laurens Prins."

"Oh." _No goodbye_? It's painful but unsurprising; since the Jackdaw's departure, since Amelie's scuffle with Donoghue, no one has bothered here, not even Mary. "When do I leave?"

" _We_ leave when you are ready," Aapo says. "Or when Darío is sober enough to stand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – son of a bitch!
> 
> *2 – coward!
> 
> *3 – oh, thank god.
> 
> *4 – good night."


	18. Bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He slurs a hello and slings an arm around her shoulders. Amelie grins and swipes his rum and somehow knows that sober she wouldn't be caught near this smelly, lewd man. His hand cups her hip and his fingers dance along the skin visible by her shirt that's ridden up and Amelie drinks some more and lets him. One more drink, she reasons with herself, and she can pretend he's Desmond, or Esme or Kidd or Mary._
> 
>  
> 
> _One more drink, she reasons, and she can pretend he's Edward._

"We would not have kept such a silly trinket," Opía Apito comments off-handedly.

Amelie turns the small key in her hand, twists the plain black cord around her fingers. It reminds her of the pendant she wears around her neck, beautiful and simple. She also knows Julien du Casse wore a key like this around his neck, that Edward swiped it from the Templar after plunging a blade into the man's neck.

"We would have thrown it to the sea," continues the Assassin woman.

Amelie's eyes flit from the key to Opía's white-streaked face. "I know," she says, "but I'm not you." _And I know Edward might be interested to have this_.

It's been four months and September brings with it harsh storms and wild gales. It's been four months since Amelie and Aapo set off from Tulum with Darío in tow, four months since a goodbye sweeter than sugar, and still, as impossible as the mere thought is, Amelie wonders if she'll ever meet Edward Kenway again.

"I shouldn't want to," she tells Aapo over rum, when it flows freely and the stars glitter overhead, out of reach and beautiful. "Should I?"

He watches blankly, emotionlessly, and tells her always, "It is not my decision to make."

Lucia Márquez is dead and Opía is safe and Darío drinks and complains his days away as they sail with a Captain not nearly as charming as Newton Seagrave or as roguish as Edward Kenway. Captain Howell is polite and courteous and nervous, hastily obeying their wishes as if death will soon follow any argument or denial.

"It's nice," Darío says, "that someone knows how important we are."

Opía Apito is safe and Amelie wears a strange key around her neck, resting above Esme's pendant and sharing its importance. It's fruitless, Amelie knows, to clutch this key in her hand and wonder and wish after a man she sent away. She _should_ do as Opía says and throw the damned thing in the ocean and be done with it all.

But throwing it aside feels heavier than it should, leaves a troubling, distasteful aftertaste.

"We thank you all for your help," Opía says. Lucia Márquez has been dead not two hours but Opía is calmer and kinder, basking in the sunlight that warms their skin. The white paint on her arms is smeared from her tussle with the woman and blood is streaked across her chest from the arrow Amelie fired that pierced the woman's throat.

"It was nothing," Amelie says. "We're glad you're safe."

"We are glad to have helped you, sister," adds Aapo, accepting the firm hand shake Opía offers him. "We have lost too many and we will take any chance we can to prevent losing more good people."

"We appreciate your kind words," replies Opía, "and we wish you safe passage home."

Their polite, nervy Captain welcomes them back with shaky hands and a shakier smile. Amelie storms below deck, the wind in the sails mirroring the storm raging inside of her. Aapo follows a few steps behind, silent and brooding, her unproclaimed protector. Their Spanish companion nicks a bottle of rum from a nearby crate and stumbles along behind them, hungover still. Amelie worries for him in the quiet spaces between fighting and storms, but he looks so alike Captain Jack Sparrow that she sees it as nothing more than a quirk of his rather than a danger to his and their lives.

"Home," she scoffs, when it's only the three of them. " _Home_."

"She means well, _cariña_ ," Darío says, throwing himself onto a nearby hammock. "How is she to know Ah Tabai would rather have you anywhere _but_ Tulum?"

"Thank you, Darío," snaps Amelie heatedly. "I _really_ needed the reminder."

"It is safer this way," says Aapo, a calming, lumbering voice speaking the same words Amelie's heard from his lips a thousand times. "Trust the Mentor."

And the same thought crosses her mind: _he's not my Mentor_.

Solange Crawley was Amelie's Mentor and so was William Miles, for a time. They tutored her for a fight completely different from the one she's been drawn into – for an enemy with hidden cameras and agents around the world, for computer viruses and political agents surrounded by bodyguards.

The battle here is different, full of cannon fire and flintlocks, and countries playing at peace but still at war. Amelie cannot play this game where the rules are so different, where the Assassin and Templar fight is so in the open – home, her _real_ home, involves a fight in the shadows, a true personification of their idiom.

 _We work in the dark to serve the light_.

"I should have left with Edward," Amelie mutters, slumping in her own hammock.

"Eh?" asks Darío, sitting up. "I am sure I misheard you, _cariña_ , but I thought you said –"

"I _did_ ," she bites back. "What difference does it make that I'm here with you and not with him?" She angrily fumbles with the straps of her hidden blades, tossing them aside when she's free of the weapons. She so stupidly believed she'd be better off with the Assassins, with the devil she knows, and now she regrets that choice.

"Hm," muses Darío, lips glistening with rum as he ponders. "Perhaps I am wrong but I do not think the _good_ _Capitán_ 's crew would be quite so welcoming as they were before."

Amelie feels doused in cold water. "...Edward said-"

"Do you trust him?" Her silence is too long and the Spaniard continues, "There is your answer."

 _You can trust him_. Mary's firm belief. Amelie has tried and wondered and imagined but is always unable to picture herself telling Edward the trust: _surprise! I'm from the future! Please don't kill me because I lied to you! Again!_

Amelie huffs irately. "I hate you."

Darío raises his bottle of rum to her and blows her a kiss. "If only that were true." His eyes flit to Aapo, sitting upright by the wall with his large arms folded across his chest. "You are awfully silent, _me amigo_. What say you to this?"

Aapo studies Amelie with dark, impassive eyes. It's unnerving, Amelie finds, the feeling of being bared open and scrutinised. "I trust Amelie's judgement," he concludes after a moment. "If she thinks Captain Kenway is trustworthy then my opinion is unnecessary."

"Thanks Aapo," Amelie murmurs. He nods once and Amelie clarifies to the two of them, "I'm not sure I _trust_ him, exactly, but..." _he's a good man_ , she hears Mary saying. "I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt."

Darío scoffs. "The man betrayed us."

"He helped us also," throws in Aapo. He pauses and his voice is a low rumble when he adds, "Perhaps he may yet surprise us. No man is beyond redemption."

Amelie's not sure she can agree with that statement – Daniel Cross comes to mind for her, a double agent in their ranks, a _murderous_ traitor whom she cannot forgive. Desmond had killed him and Amelie had felt sick satisfaction for being at last rid of him. Daniel Cross, Amelie thinks, was beyond redemption.

Wasn't he?

"Suit yourselves," grumbles Darío, rolling over in his hammock and turning his back to them. "I do not intend to give that _bastardo_ any benefit of any doubt."

"As is your choice," Aapo says.

Amelie huffs a laugh and adds, "Maybe he'll surprise you, _mon ami_."

"I doubt that," huffs Darío in return, "and the mere fact that you believe _any_ pirate can be a _good man_ is laughable."

"It's not me who believes that," Amelie says. "I think he _can_ be, one day. With the right guidance."

Amelie's thinking again of Desmond, of the Mentor's son who paved his own path rather than follow the one laid for him. He found his way back, in the end, though now she wonders if it was all for nothing.

"Well, perhaps you will see him yourself," mumbles the Spaniard, "convince him to return to Tulum so I may decapitate him myself."

"The chances of us meeting again are slim," Amelie points out. Her words have become sad, appertaining to more than just Edward and the Jackdaw now. "It's a big world."

"Not nearly as big as you think, perhaps."

"We sail to Nassau," Aapo tells her, elaborating the man's cryptic words with little pause. "Opía informed me of a target residing there. A pirate - providing armaments to the Templars now that du Casse is dead."

Unwittingly, Amelie's hand rises to grasp the key around her neck. Aapo follows the movement with keen eyes and smiles unnervingly sneakily.

"You may yet see your Captain again," he finishes, rising from his perch and walking towards his hammock.

"He's not _my_ Captain," Amelie tells him and the silence he answers her with is louder than any arguing words he could provide.

* * *

Nassau is how she remembers it; smelly, disgusting and _loud_.

Captain Howell adamantly refuses to go ashore, despite Amelie's insistences that the pirates of New Providence are not nearly so bad as they appear ("they are _worse_ ," mutters Darío). Howell sneers across the bay at the beach and the bonfires, and only ten minutes after Amelie's boots hit the sand, Darío is ensnared by _dancers_ , beautiful women shimmying their hips and bidding their companion _come hither_. Aapo's hand on Amelie's shoulder guides her away as their Spanish companion starts to flirt in rapid Spanish, and Amelie rolls her eyes and grumbles under her breath.

Aapo walks through the dirty, jovial streets of Nassau like a man on a mission, expertly leading the way to the Bureau Amelie's visited once before. She doesn't admit to the man walking by her side, but her eyes are straying with her thoughts; under Darío's scrutinising stare, Amelie had resolutely refused to search the bay for the familiar Jackdaw and her crew as they'd rowed ashore. She's under no obligation to pretend anymore, she has no words to stand by or knowing glances to ignore, and Aapo, she knows, hardly cares to tease or torment her about her almost-relationship with Edward Kenway.

However _odd_ their relationship/partnership/friendship seems to be.

Rounding another corner sees Amelie recognised by strangers; they clap her on the shoulder, mumble greetings and pass out on the sandy paths, and a familiar voice hollers her name and parts the crowd. She sees the blue military coat with its fluttering coattails, the thick sideburns and dark, messy hair and feels a smile crossing her lips.

"Captain Hornigold," she greets, and she gasps for breath when the man strides towards her and pulls her into a rough bearhug. She gestures amiably to Aapo when the man begins to reach for his spear, a startled, furious look on his face. "Hello!"

"Amelie Crawrley," he drawls, hands on her arms as he draws back. He's dipped to look her over, his dark eyes raking over her face and clothes. "Kenway told me the two of ye had parted ways." He winks gaudily. "There's still a place for you aboard the _Benjamin_ , lass. Just say the word."

"We didn't part on bad terms," Amelie clarifies, though she's sure Edward will have already told his Mentor so. "I had to leave."

"So he said," agrees Hornigold. "Ah, it's a shame is all. I wouldn't say no to waking up with you in my bed every mornin'." Ben's eyes drift over Aapo lazily. Unworried, he asks, "Who's yer friend?"

The heat of Aapo's glower could melt steel.

"This is Aapo," Amelie introduces anyway. "He's a colleague of mine."

"Oh, _ho_ ," cries Ben. "A colleague! Kenway let ye go for _work_ , did he?" His thick brows pinch together in thought. "Strange times where a fella would employ a lass, if ye don't mind my sayin'."

Aapo's hand clenches around his spear. Amelie lays a hand on his arm to calm him. "Aapo, go on ahead," she advises. He fixes her with a disbelief stare. "I'll catch up."

He nods curtly. "I'll see you at the Bureau." His eyes are cold as they judge Ben harshly.

Ben guffaws after him. "Some friends ye've got, lass."

"He's just protective."

"Aye, he should be." Ben swings an arm around her shoulders. "If I didn't know ye'd kick my ass from here to Sunday, I'd be stealin' ye myself." He leans in close and says, "Though I reckon Kenway'd give me a hell of a fight for ye."

Amelie grins, briefly entertaining the thought, but she says aloud, "I doubt that."

"Come on." He hears none of her light-hearted arguments to otherwise, hooking her arm with his and leading her through Nassau. "That gruff lookin' fella can wait an hour or so."

"Really, Ben," she tries, though her stomach flutters at the idea of being around pirates again, being in the Old Avery where the rum flows and the cheers follows. "I shouldn't. I have work to do."

"It can wait," Ben says cheerily. "Let's get some drink in ye, lass!"

Desperately, she tries, "If the Jackdaw's crew are there –"

"Oh, aye," drawls Ben, "there was a right tizzy with that lot, eh? The _Benjamin_ 's crew are gentlemen, lass, won't be no fights for me to break up when they won't start none."

He tries to sell his crew to her five times as they walk, insists she'd never want to leave pirating if she sailed with him and his men, and his price rises with every 'no, thank you,' that leaves her lips. She's amused but firm and insistent; there's no place for her on the deck of a ship because she belongs on the frontlines of a war Ben has no knowledge of.

The frontlines of a war she's been away from for too long, searching for a lost soldier who's not a soldier at all. The frontlines of a war Ah Tabai would rather keep her from, and the frontlines of a war Esme would not be near.

"Have no fear, lass," says Ben, his hand warm on the small of her back as he gently pushes her into the tavern ahead of him. "The Jackdaw ain't due back to Nassau for some time yet."

Is it relief she feels, or disappointment?

"Well, Devil be damned!" cries another voice. "We didn't think we'd be seein' the likes of you again, lass!"

Amelie sees _black_ – thick strands of hair under a tricorn hat, and a tumbling mess of black tangles down the chest of a man with once only a stubbly beard. He sweeps her into a rough, bone-crushing hug with far more force behind it than Ben's, and laughs jovially at her stunned look.

"Now I know I'm not _that_ unrecognisable," says Blackbeard, preening under her gaze and running his hand along the thick beard he's grown since they last saw one another.

"What're ye gonna do, Thatch?" Ben says to the man glibly, "the lass obviously hates it!"

 _Thatch_ , she thinks, eyes wide and mouth slack. _Blackbeard_. _Oh, my god_.

"No, no," she hastens to say. "I like it! I do." She licks her dry lips, tries to will her awe at the realisation into careful acknowledgement. "Very fearsome."

Thatch preens. "What'd I tell ye, man?" He says to Ben. "The lass gets it."

"Aye, man, sure she does."

Thatch walks her to the bar and signals the barmaid to get her a tankard; the metal is cool against her fingers and the ale is warm and the barmaid is beautiful and wearing flowers in her hair.

"Now where'd ye head off to, lass?" asks Thatch roughly. "Kenway said 'is lips were sealed."

Amelie takes a drink, cringes, but swallows anyway. "I had to go home," she says. "That's all."

"And now she's workin'," puts in Ben, swiping the tankard from her and downing half of it himself. "Load a codswallop!"

"Workin'?" repeats Thatch, astounded. "What're ye workin' away from Kenway for?"

"Load a shite," comments Ben, while Thatch hums his agreement. "Help me steal 'er, eh Thatch?"

"Yer a damn fool," says Thatch. Amelie sits between the two of them until she notices Darío in the doorway, his arms around two women and a sloppy, satisfied grin on his face. He waves to her with his fingers, crooks them uninterestedly to invite her near. "Kenway'd have yer damn head."

"He don't need t' know," says Ben. He nudges her shoulder. "Eh, Amelie? What d'ye say? I'll make it worth yer while."

"Ah, tosh!" guffaws Thatch loudly. "Kenway couldn't keep 'er, what makes ye think _you_ can?"

"Kenway's just a lad," says Ben, as Amelie slides from her barstool and slips away. "Maybe she just needs a man t' keep 'er right!"

"Gentlemen," she dismisses. She slides onto the bench near Darío and shakes her head in disbelief. "Honestly," she mumbles.

"Bloody pirates," Darío agrees seriously, but Amelie is seeing Jack Sparrow again and she bursts into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

The barmaid from earlier draws closer, setting a bottle of rum in front of Darío and adjusting the flowers in her hair before she leaves.

"Are they always like that?" she asks Amelie, gesturing with her chin towards Ben and Thatch, laughing heartily with each other.

"I haven't seen them in a while," Amelie admits, "so I wouldn't know." She grins, shrugs one-shouldered. "I didn't expect it, anyway."

The woman chuckles. "Can I get ye anythin'?"

"Same as what you gave me before is fine."

"I'm Anne," are the woman's parting words. Her hair is as red as the roses in her hair, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. "It's nice to see another woman about."

When she returns with Amelie's ale, Amelie tells her, "Us women need to stick together."

"Aye," returns Anne. She leans against the table, skirt split daringly up her thigh. "It's a man's world, ain't it?"

Amelie glances around the Old Avery, at the drunkards passed out on and under tables, the pirates arguing boldly.

"That's what they think," she tells Anne, fingers wrapped around her tankard.

Anne grins.

* * *

Anne is telling her about life on Nassau when the cheer goes up through the tavern, and Amelie is drunk and getting drunker.

"There's little else but piss and insects," Anne complains, in the midst of rambling about a husband who shows her little care and attention and even less manliness. "There's nowhere to find eggs," she adds, "only rum and bumblin' men playing at piracy."

"Come now, dear lady," slurs a nearby pirate. Amelie is nudged to the side as Anne slides over, a tall man in a frilly once-white shirt forcing him way onto the bench beside Anne. "You wound us!"

"I'm busy, Jack," Anne scolds but there's a fondness in her voice that tells Amelie she's been dismissed by her new friend. Across the table, Darío is passed out face down on the rotting wood, fingers curled around a knocked over tankard and rum quickly matting in his hair. She starts to rise, considers rousing Darío and warning him of the stickiness he'll feel in the morning, and instead stumbles over her feet and crumbles to the floor. Her hand catches on the edge of a table, slicing up her palm, and after a hissing exhale of her pain, Amelie starts to laugh.

"What an idiot," she mumbles to herself, as Anne leans over the bench and asks if she's alright. She waves her off, rolling onto her back on the dirty floor; she feels the vibrations of feet on the floor from the boots around her, hears the laughter and singing as if through water. "Esme would hate this," she says. Esme never understood why Amelie drank at all, when she could. Esme didn't understand how thrilled Amelie had been to learn of Desmond's bartending occupation. Esme had quietly bowed out and left the room when Desmond had offered to whip up some drinks for them to drown their sorrows with.

"Worth it," Amelie says, then and now. Darío snores and Anne giggles flirtatiously. Hands grasp Amelie under the shoulders and haul her to her feet while she tries to copy Anne's giggling, failing spectacularly but laughing harder at herself when she snorts unattractively.

"Christ," mumbles the voice, setting her on a bench and kneeling in front of her. "Nah, man, she's gone."

"Seth," Amelie greets. She cocks her head and grins. " _Bonjour_!"

"Shoulda left her there, mate," says Donoghue over his shoulder. He's not sneering at her but neither is he happy to see her. "She ain't our problem."

Seth looks over her shoulder to Darío, snorting in his sleep as he adjusts his position on the table. He buries his nose in the crook of his arm, his shirt stained with rum from his shoulder to his elbow. Donoghue grumbles under his breath and rolls his eyes.

"He don't seem so intimidating now," he throws at Seth. Amelie bops the younger man's nose as he flushes scarlet.

"Well, he was sober then," he mumbles. "Amelie, where ya stayin'? I'll see ye there."

Amelie thinks for a moment. "Bureau," she drunkenly says. "I can't let you go there though."

Donoghue huffs, and mutters to Seth, "Must be some Assassin-y place."

"You're cute right now," Amelie says to Seth, as he frowns worriedly. Drunkenly stern, she adds, "So worried when you shouldn't be."

"Nah, mate," says Donoghue. "She ain't our problem."

"It's fine," Anne says from over Amelie's shoulder. Soft, gentle hands guide Amelie closer to the other woman until she's dozing on her shoulder, humming happily to herself. "I've got her, lad."

Amelie waves goodbye with her eyes closed, humming and blissfully unaware as another cheer wracks the tavern, and louder voices greet the newcomer with enthusiasm. Anne starts to rise and Amelie blinks dazedly as she comes face to face with Jack and his frilly shirt.

He slurs a hello and slings an arm around her shoulders. Amelie grins and swipes his rum and somehow knows that sober she wouldn't be caught near this smelly, lewd man. His hand cups her hip and his fingers dance along the skin visible by her shirt that's ridden up and Amelie drinks some more and lets him. One more drink, she reasons with herself, and she can pretend he's Desmond, or Esme or Kidd or Mary.

One more drink, she reasons, and she can pretend he's Edward.

"Remove your man, Vane," says the man himself, as large and familiarly calloused hands disentangle Amelie from Jack's hands. A loud voice slurs an insult Amelie doesn't catch and Jack Rackham tumbles to the tavern floor. Amelie sees a worn leather bracer on an arm that reaches for her abandoned coat, a white shirt with a tear near the elbow and blue coattails caught around her thigh.

" _Bon soir_ , Captain," she greets, as her head lazily rolls back to stare up at him.

"Fancy seein' you here," returns Edward Kenway. "It's been a while."

"Feels like years," Amelie tells him. "And I'd _know_ because I've been here for _years_." She pauses. "Right here on this tavern floor."

Edward blinks. "I think I'd have known if you'd been here on this tavern floor for years, lass." His lips twitch. "If you've been here, who did I save on that galleon?"

Amelie shrugs. "A weirdo."

Edward huffs a laugh that Amelie feels against her body. The sea-salt clings to his skin with the leather and the gunpowder and she inhales deeply, as though afraid he'll leave and she'll not see him for months again. It's a damp night, the air heavy and humid, and Amelie stands on her feet and stumbles away when Edward tries to set her coat on her shoulders. Her waistcoat is undone and open and she uses her loose shirt to fan her sweaty skin.

"I like you," Amelie tells him, "but I _don't_ like you. And I don't like this weather."

"I'm owed a favour for this, Amelie," Edward calls after her. He swaggers a few feet back, following her amusedly as she walks slowly towards the Bureau (this way, she thinks, only for Edward to correct her a second later). "I've visited," he explains, and then, "I should be celebrating a massive haul with my crew, not escorting you home."

"Not my home," Amelie points out. She stumbles, reaches for a wooden railing to steady herself. "Don't have a home anymore."

"You could have," Edward says pointedly. "But you pissed on that and threw it in my face."

"For good reason."

"For _Esme_." He huffs, calms himself down under Amelie's confused frown. The air has sobered her, her tight grip on the railing steadied her. Her green eyes are sharper out here than they were in the tavern. "She better be bloody worth it, lass."

"She is," Amelie tells him, but she knows she hasn't convinced anyone. She's not sure if she can convince herself anymore. "She has to be." Amelie swallows as her stomach turns. "Oh, god," she mumbles.

Edward approaches slowly, a hand rubbing on her back as Amelie fights her nausea. "Can't hold your drink, eh?"

"Of course I can," she says, right before she throws up in the dandelion patch beside the path. She wretches, hates how grounding Edward's hand on her back feels. "My whole family can."

"Big family?"

She shakes her head, moans pitifully at the burning in her throat. "Just me and _ma mère_." She moans again, laments, "How can it taste so sweet but _burn so much_ when it comes up?"

"Not meant to come back up," Edward says.

"I'm never drinking again."

Edward chuckles. "That's what they all say," he comments, helping her stand. "Come tomorrow evening, there'll be an ale in your hand and a smile on your lips and you'll do this all over again."

"All of it?" Curious green eyes meet sea blues; blond brows frown unsurely.

"We'll see," he says. "Come on. Reckon Aapo'll have my head if I let anything happen to you."

"Aapo's harmless," Amelie says.

"To you, aye, to me he's got hands that could snap my neck in half." He pauses and his lips quirk. "Though I'd wager I could give him a run for his money. Done it before, long time ago. How I met Thatch, actually."

"Ah, Thatch," Amelie mumbles dreamily. "Good ol' Blackbeard. He's a _legend_."

"Is he now?"

"Famous," she continues. "So many stories about him."

"Didn't think news o' him had spread that far, yet."

"Stories about you, too," she says. "Not what you expect though. Think your grandson talked about you once."

Distantly, Amelie puts the pieces together; Desmond in the Animus and the blue glow of the temple around her, Connor and another man on the deck of a ship, a smile on Desmond's face and a frown on Amelie's while she waited earnestly for a phone call that wouldn't come. _He sailed for himself_.

"You're drunker than I thought," comments Edward with a smile but there's a spark in his eyes that should unnerve her, that _would_ unnerve her if she was sober.

"Pfft. I'm not that bad." Amelie grins, and there's a far-off look in her eyes as she starts to recount, "The first and _only_ time Esme got drunk, she nearly broke the Animus. Rebecca nearly lost her mind, y'know? 'cause it's her _baby_ and she'd worked _so_ hard – _it's nearly perfect_!" Amelie can hear Rebecca's voice like it was yesterday, so proud of her accomplishment, so _ready_ for Lucy to bust Desmond out of Abstergo. It makes her sad. "Esme couldn't stop giggling like it was the funniest thing she'd ever done..." Miserably, Amelie slows to a stop, gripping Edward's arm as her stomach vaults and flips and her head pounds.

"Nearly there," Edward encourages. She feels him wave his hand to someone as she takes deep breaths, hears the rumbling baritone that signals Aapo's arrival.

"What have you done?"

"Not a thing, mate, she did this to herself."

" _Not on purpose_ ," Amelie mumbles. "It didn't feel this bad when I was _drinking_."

"And Darío?" Aapo demands. "Where is he?"

"Still in the tavern," Edward says. "Passed out between two beautiful ladies last I saw."

Aapo inhales deeply, a stern, disapproving sigh that makes Edward smirk in amusement and Amelie wince in shame. Eventually, the man nods silent thanks to Edward and reaches forward to help Amelie walk on.

Amelie takes a step and wretches, dropping to her knees as she empties the contents of her stomach on the sandy path, and two sets of hands rub her back and help her stand. Muttered words are shared over her head, concerned and amused and light, and she groans when she's swept off her feet and tucked tight to a body that smells of sea-salt and gunpowder and leather.

* * *

She spends the afternoon and early evening nursing a headache and begging for low voices. She regrets drinking and regrets _speaking_ because she can remember perfectly every word that left her lips the night before.

"I spoke about his _grandson_ ," she laments aloud, while Aapo sits disinterestedly across from her. "I spoke about _Blackbeard_! Honestly! Any more brain and I'd be bloody dangerous."

Aapo takes a breath, his shoulders slumping as he slowly shakes his head. "I am sure the Captain thought them only drunken ramblings and nonsense."

"I'm not so sure." She can remember perfectly the curious glint that shone in his eyes as she spoke, the pinching of his brow as he took the puzzle pieces she gave and stored them away for later use. She shakes her head and runs her hands through her tangles of hair as she lays her head on the table, groaning. " _Je suis un idiot_.*1"

"We must act, Amelie," Aapo insists.

Amelie nods slowly and starts to rise; while she and Darío spent their evening surrounded by pirates and rum and ale, Aapo spent his tailing their target, learning his movement, discovering his plans. The Templar pirate, a Captain named Toby, is leaving Nassau with armaments _tonight_.

"We must intercept," Aapo says again. "If Toby leaves Nassau and meets the _Endurance_ , all will have been for nothing and we will have missed our chance."

The _Endurance_ , Aapo had explained earlier, is a man-o-war setting sail for Havana after receiving the armaments from Captain Toby. The nervy Captain Howell and his small schooner would stand no chance going against them, and their target will have slipped through their fingers.

Amelie gathers her hair in her hand and wraps her green bandana around it, securing it tightly out of her face. "We have no time to lose then," she says, reaching for her coat and weapons.

They have no time to search for Darío and even less time to sober him up enough to help them. Creeping through Nassau's streets to the harbour, Amelie asks, "What happened to him anyway?" and waits patiently while Aapo adjusts his spear and ponders his answer.

"Do you remember Pace?" he asks eventually and Amelie nods slowly after a moment; she recalls a thin, sly man scampering up a wall in Havana and leaving a fight before it was over. "When we returned to Tulum, Ah Tabai informed Darío and I of his death." A pause. "Templars. They left his body for us to find. It was not a pretty sight."

"Oh." Amelie hadn't even known Darío and Pace were close. "I'm sorry."

"Darío has been struggling with the futility of the war for a while."

 _The straw that broke the camel's back_ , she thinks. _Esme was the same_. Desmond had killed Lucy and fallen into a coma and Amelie's friend had raged and ranted and finally took matters into her own hands.

_Esme needs me._

_We need you too, Ams._

"There," Aapo says. The two of them kneel behind an overturned longboat, ignoring the shouts and cheers of the pirate crew partying about the nearby bonfire and instead focussing their attention on the men packing crates into boats.

Amelie's eyes flit across the bay. "Captain Howell is gone," she comments disgustedly. "He wouldn't have helped us anyway."

"God protect him if he ever meets another Assassin," Aapo murmurs. "It will not be a pretty sight."

Amelie's lip twitches. _Not a pretty sight_ indeed; the Captain may be innocent but he will not be safe from an Assassin's fists if they ever catch up to him. "Coward," is what she says aloud. "I wouldn't mind getting my hands on him after this."

Aapo looks towards the ship the longboats sail to; a brig, Amelie notes, only slightly bigger than the Jackdaw.

"Toby is aboard already," he concludes. "We may be too late."

"We could swim it," Amelie suggests.

"Too noisy," Aapo replies. He reaches for the blowpipe strapped across his back. "We have to sneak aboard."

Startled, Amelie stares at him. " _Sneak aboard_? We'd be outnumbered, Aapo!"

He nods to the bow slung over Amelie's back. "If we get close enough, you have the skill to kill him at distance." He smirks. "I thought you would like the challenge."

 _The challenge_. Amelie glances about them at the shadows and the dark, the dull silvery glow of the moon above. This is more than a challenge, she knows – closer to a mistake waiting to happen. She may shoot the wrong man and all of this will be for nothing. She may shoot the _right_ man and it will be worth it. A blow to the strengthening Templars, no matter how small it might be.

"They cannot receive those weapons," Aapo murmurs. "Amelie, we must act."

Amelie feels an exhilaration that reminds her of partnering with Desmond that first and only time. They'd infiltrated and stolen and escaped with their lives, and Desmond had looked at her with such awe that Amelie's stomach had fluttered and her cheeks had flushed crimson.

 _They'll know we were here_ , Amelie had said as they made to leave.

 _Yeah_ , Desmond had laughed. _You've left your signature behind for them to see_!

Amelie fingers one of those arrows now. "No time to lose," she breathes.

Aapo shoots four darts; four men go down. The two Assassins quickly dispose of the bodies, leaving the snoozing men in the underbrush, out of sight of the beach until morning. They grasp the longboat and the few crates loaded aboard, and push towards the water, hopping in and rowing towards the ship and men bustling aboard the dock.

Aapo is quiet as he rows them towards the back of the ship and Amelie thinks about Desmond and his ancestor's, their fabled Eagle Vision. She thinks of Edward, how useful he would be if he were here right now, here to see in the dark where they cannot. She reaches for a climbing hold and hauls herself off the longboat, scrabbling up the hull of the ship with Aapo following.

They hang like monkeys on the railing, peering onto the ship and ducking out of sight when they need to. The longboat bobs on the waves below them, their escape vehicle waiting to be used, and Amelie waits patiently for Aapo to find their target.

"I cannot see him," he whispers.

"He must be in the Captain's Cabin," Amelie says. "The chances of us getting in there unseen are slim."

Aapo exhales through his teeth, an annoyed sound that makes her cringe. "I should have struck yesterday," he mutters. "When I had the chance."

"Why didn't you?"

"We cannot win this," Aapo says. He starts to descend. "It is over."

Amelie frowns, studies the deck and the crew starting to thin for a weakness; gunpowder barrels, she notes, tied together and waiting to be lowered below deck. She looks down at Aapo, clambering into the longboat and awaiting her, and climbs over the railing onto the ship as Aapo hisses her name.

 _I just need to draw him out_ , she thinks, sneaking along the deck of the quiet ship. She ducks behind fire barrels as a lone member of the crew circles the ship, peering into the sea and up towards the sky, watching and waiting – for _her_ , for _Assassins_. She draws her bow into her hand and nocks an arrow, ready, and slowly starts to creep towards the gunpowder barrels.

Aapo's spear scrapes along the deck as he joins her, hissing her name. "It is _over_ , Amelie! There is nothing we can do!"

"We can try," she fires back. "Set that gunpowder alight and draw out Toby – I get my shot, we get out of here, mission accomplished!"

"You are mad! Setting off those barrels will destroy this ship and take our lives with it!"

"We'll be fine," Amelie assures. "We have to do this. You said yourself, Toby cannot reach the _Endurance_!"

"This was a mistake," Aapo snaps. "Your mind is still not your own."

"I'm perfectly sober! Now help me set fire to this ship!"

With a disgruntled sigh, Aapo comes forward, crouched beside her while Amelie keenly watches the one sailor on deck. He's staring at Nassau, sighing wistfully while Aapo reaches into his coat for a match-

A gunshot pierces the air and time slows.

Aapo shouts and drops the unlit match. The pirate staring at Nassau spins at the same time Amelie does, hand on the hilt of his cutlass while Amelie draws back the bowstring and aims at the captain. Thundering footsteps rise from below deck with ravenous shouting. Fury tugs at Amelie; she hadn't even heard the bloody _door_ opening.

"Sorry to intrude," greets the man Amelie can only assume is Captain Toby. A man with greying blond hair and chiselled features – for a second, Amelie sees Seagrave, so alike in appearance and demeanour the two are.

Aapo rises slowly, grimacing and his hand holding his shoulder. Captain Toby aims a new pistol at Amelie while she aims an arrow at him, an icy and fiery stalemate Amelie cannot see herself escaping any time soon. Heavy boots stomp around them, weapons clunk as they are drawn, and Amelie and Aapo are staring down the barrels of pistols pointed at them from every direction.

Blood blossoms outward on Aapo's shoulder; sweat coats his brow and upper lip. Amelie is used to dealing with costly mistakes but she'll be damned if she loses anymore friends.

 _We should have asked Edward_ , she thinks now, slowly lowering her bow. _Coming here alone was a mistake_.

"I want names," Captain Toby says.

Confused but mutinous, Amelie's lips remain stubbornly sealed. Aapo is breathing heavily at her side, and every deep inhale distresses her more and more. Toby prowls forward, shifting his aim towards Aapo while his crew edge closer, closing in on them. Amelie and Aapo have their backs to the sea; if she had the strength, she could push Aapo over the railing and to safety.

Toby's pistol clicks. "Names," he repeats.

Amelie lifts her chin. "Fuck off," she tells him and she raises her bow and fires her arrow.

Toby darts to the side but howls when the arrow catches him in the arm. Amelie drops her bow and draws her cutlass, lifting it and trying to threaten while her hand wraps around Aapo's elbow and draws him up. He reaches for his spear, winces in pain, and draws it anyway.

Captain Toby snarls his anger while Aapo huffs out his pain; Toby's crew shifts unsurely as Amelie stands before them, sword drawn and ready.

"I know who you are," Toby sneers. To his crew, he commands, "Kill him. Throw her in the brig."

Amelie glances about her, parries a sword that tries to take Aapo's head, and turns to her ally.

"I'm sorry," she says to him.

With an almighty shove, Aapo stumbles back –

And over the railing into the sea.

Amelie draws her hidden blade and plunges it into the neck of the first pirate to come close, ripping it free roughly as she spins away, clashing swords with the next while gunshots are fired overboard to the water. She plunges her cutlass into the stomach of the man in front of her, slices wildly at one to her left, and stumbles as white-hot pain slices up her hip.

"We can't see him, Captain!"

"'e's gone!"

 _Good_ , Amelie thinks, tightening her grip on her cutlass and lifting it as the Captain draws close. He parries easily, knocks the blade from her hand and grips her coat in one clenched fist. The metal is cool on her skin and her eyes hold a dare; _this is it_ , she hopes. _It's over_.

Hands grasp her arms and hold her tight, blood pools on the deck at her feet, and regrets rampage through her thoughts. _Stay alive_ , a promise made to a ghost of a woman now, her best friend whose voice she can hardly recall, and _endure_ , the mantra of her family. Through it all, she hears Edward's voice, _you pissed on that and th_ _rew_ _it in my face, she better be worth it_.

 _I'm sorry_ , she thinks, because she's not sure anymore. _I'm sorry_ , she thinks, because she's afraid that she knows the answer and it's not the one she wants. _I'm sorry_ , she thinks, because she should have gone with Edward when she had the chance.

 _I'm sorry_ , she thinks again, before Captain Toby brings the hilt of his sword down on her temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – I'm an idiot.


	19. Endurance (Pt. I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There’s a dangerous undertone to his attitude, a confidence that comes from the knowledge that Edward knows he can succeed."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo. 
> 
> whoops! sorry for the long wait and enjoy! x

She dreams of a dark room and the smell of lavender, of rain rattling against a window. A girl with tangled knots of red hair and a bloody gash on her forehead, drawing back with a wince and a hissing exhale from a hooded woman in purple holding a stained red cloth in her hand.

" _Georgie_." A whispered warning. The girl stills. " _That was reckless._ "

" _He dared me_." There's a challenge in the girl's voice. " _Was I supposed to let him win_?"

The woman huffs a laugh. " _Of course not_." She shakes her head fondly. " _You made your point quite plainly._ "

The girl is pleased, shrugging one shoulder unworriedly. " _Serves him right_."

" _Jacob won't be pleased_."

" _Jacob can kiss my arse._ "

" _Georgie_."

" _This isn't my fault_." She draws away again but this time starts to leave. She does not look back, head held high and ignoring the woman saying her name softly, disappointedly. " _Jack started it_." She slams the door behind her, hard enough to rattle the pictures than hang on the walls.

Wisps of smoke blur her sight, obscuring the scene from her view; far away, she hears a jackdaw singing as a rook soars through the window.

Amelie stirs.

* * *

 

"Where'd ye find him, man?"

Ben removes his pipe from his lips, exhales foggy grey smoke into the dark, humid room. "Stumbled outtar the sea like some devil outtar the Locker," he murmurs. "My crew were at the bonfire when it 'appened. Recognised 'im from yesterday."

Thatch nods sagely. "Kenway been told?"

"Waitin' for the bloke t' wake up," Ben says. "No use worryin' the lad o'er nothin'."

Thatch shakes his head, the long strands of his black beard trailing over the pistols strapped to his chest. "Ain't wise," he comments. "This'll involve the lass."

"No use worryin' 'im until there's somethin' t' worry about," Ben says firmly.

" _You_  might think that but I disagree." He starts away, grasps a young boy by the shoulder as he tries to dart past. "Get up t' the Avery, lad," he commands, ignoring Ben's irritated grumbling and the way the boy trembles under his grip. "Get Kenway down 'ere now."

"Yer a damn fool, Thatch," Ben complains. "That lass ain't good for 'im."

"Doesn't mean we ought t' condemn 'er," says Blackbeard. "Ye were there when Kenway was tellin' those stories. She's one o' us. We leave 'er behind then we're no better than the King's Navy." He snatches Ben's pipe and inhales greedily. "Kenway'll lose 'is bloody 'ead."

"Why we shouldn't be worryin' 'im, Thatch," snaps Ben, "not until we know the details."

"Piece it together, eh?" suggests Thatch after a moment's rest. "What might've 'appened between the lass leavin' yesterday and this evening?"

"Any number o' things!"

Thatch nods towards the man passed out on the cot, the  _Benjamin_ 's doctor fussing over him. "He were with her though, aye?"

"Aye, 'fore I stole 'er away to the Avery." He pauses to think. "Name's Aapo, think she said."

The man in question shivers on the cot, a sodden and stained red shirt abandoned on the floor by their feet while the doctor tends to the wound in the man's shoulder. The doctor is frowning miserably, words on his tongue he won't speak; bad news.

"What's all this then?" greets Kenway, ruffling the hair of the lad Thatch sent after him. "Expected you two louts back hours ago..." Thatch watches Edward's eyes fix on Aapo's form, watches the cocky smirk slip from his lips as he stops between them, and sees immediately as the pieces are connected together.

"The lass ain't here," Ben says before he can speak. "'E appeared alone."

Edward's eyes rake over the wound, illuminated by the dozens of burning candles in the shack. His hands clench at his sides while he grits his teeth, blue eyes stormy.

"Where was he found?"

"The beach," Ben answers. "Came outtar the sea – Lad, there ain't nothing we can do yet!"

Edward goes anyway, Thatch trailing behind him while Ben lingers with his doctor. The  _Benjamin_ 's crew have spread from the bonfire, leaving in their wake the rambunctious crew of the  _Ranger_  and their Captain. Vane throws himself into a standing position as Edward strides past, a spyglass to his eye while he tries vainly to read the name of the ship breaching the horizon.

"Here, here," Vane greets, ambling to a stop near Thatch. "How much 'as he 'ad ta drink then?"

"Whose ship is that?" Edward demands, whirling to face them. His grip on the spyglass is knuckle-white, the storm in his eyes reaching the force of a hurricane.

"Was a man named Toby," Vane informs slowly. Even almost drunk the gravity of the situation does not seem lost on him. "Stranger fella than I ever seen, Kenway."

"Where's the man headed?"

"The man didn't give me 'is bloody life story, Kenway!"

"Made mention of a ship called the  _Endurance_ ," slurs Jack Rackham, staggering to a stop over Vane's shoulder. He goes down heavily when Vane spins, sucker punching him in the jaw and looming over him while his blood seeps through his fingers.

"Daft snot," Vane thunders, "that were our prize!"

"I'll help ya take it," Edward says, at the same time Thatch ponders aloud, "The  _Endurance_  makes port in Havana, Kenway. Spaniards don't like us – that ship makes port, your lass is gone."

"Oi, lads!" Ben Hornigold, jogging towards them with his pipe in hand. "Yer man's awake."

* * *

 

" _Do you know why I took the Crawley name_?"

She's only a little girl, sitting in front of her mother while the woman's hands twist her hair into elegant braids. A ruse, she knows now, because what use are beautiful braids when they won't stop a blade slicing through her neck? She mutely shakes her head.

" _Because our family is strong_ ," Solange Crawley continues. She knots off the braid, appeases her daughter as the girl turns to face her, grinning her joy. " _Our family has always been strong. Do you know why_?"

She's a little girl and she recites, " _We endure_."

Solange's smile is thin and tired. " _That's right_ ," she says. " _We endure, mon trésor_."

"We endure," Amelie whispers now, though her head pounds and her vision clouds. There's a puddle of vomit in the corner of the small cell she sits in, the product of a dizziness that engulfed her as she struggled to sit up;  _concussion_ , she hears Shaun tutting in her thoughts,  _you really should be more careful_. A lucky hit that knocked her down and sent her reeling. Her stomach churns again and her temple throbs. "Endure."

" _Your great-great-grandmother was strong_ ," her mother is saying. She sounds so close to Amelie, close enough that Amelie imagines her mother's fingers in her hair, stroking through the matted blood in the curls. " _We must be too._ "

She's a little girl and she doesn't understand. " _Why_?"

" _What use are tears, mon trésor?_ " A ghostly kiss to her throbbing temple. " _Will they spare your life_?" A pause. " _We must be like our ancestors_."

Amelie swallows, laying her cheek against the cool, rusted metal of her cell door, and wills her eyes to stop watering. She focusses on the shouting above deck, the lull of the ship as it sails, the waves crashing against the sides. She listens to the creaking of the masts, the whipping of the sails, and holds onto hope that's slipping through her fingers.

 _Aapo is alive_ , she insists to herself.  _Someone is coming for me_.  _They have to be_.

Amelie's not used to feeling so helpless. She's usually the one on the other end, the one rushing through a shattered window and firing arrows at anyone who dares come near. She's the one who storms into the unknown with her head held high and a laugh on her lips, the one who grabs the arm of the damsel in distress and tells her to save herself.

Yet now she's here, in a cold, damp cell, weapon-less and ally-less, unsure and anxious.

 _We endure_.

Amelie begins to plot.

* * *

 

The man is incoherently mumbling, reaching for the thin blankets that cover him and trying vainly to rise to his feet. At full strength, Edward knows the man is a giant and a bear of a man, every step a lumbering stride that shakes the ground of the mere mortals who he deigns worthy of walking beside. Edward knows Aapo's displeased and unimpressed with him, a pirate playing at an Assassin – Edward brings dishonour on their Order, he's been told, and he deserves the mockery and scorn that follows his steps.

But while he and Aapo might not see eye to eye in other circumstances, on this, on  _Amelie_ , Edward knows they see each other clearly.

A spitfire, through and through, with hair as fiery as the temper she tries to hide. What a sight to behold she had been, he remembers as he sits in the dark, silhouetted by fierce, golden sunlight and drawing back another arrow. She was after his head, his life, because of a stolen costume and a betrayal he'd carried out for no other reason than greed, but she'd been mesmerising.

 _A hurricane_ , he thinks,  _and I'm caught in her winds_.

Aapo shudders, moans, and falls still. Edward begins to rise, concerned, but is waved off by Hornigold and the doctor. The dismissive gesture does nothing to comfort him as he turns his eyes towards the streaks of light gracing the sky.

"This is a waste of time," he mutters to Adéwalé. "We should be following Toby, that's our lead."

Adé ponders silently, then, "It does seem unwise to linger when the man does not appear to be rising any time soon."

Edward rolls his shoulders, feels the heavy weight of his armour on his body. His Quartermaster has assured him that his crew is ready to sail at a moment's notice, ready to hunt and haunt and rescue. He thinks and he plans and he waits restlessly. Aapo shudders again, sweat beaded along his brow, while beside Edward, Thatch and Adé share a conspiring look.

"I cannot imagine Aapo being too pleased to wake and find we waited his approval," advises his Quartermaster. "Every moment we waste standing here is another league between us and Amelie."

"The Spaniards don't like pirates," Thatch reiterates. "She's as good as dead."

"They won't kill her," Edward argues. "She's valuable to Torres, he won't want her dead."

"Torres," Thatch repeats, " _Governor_  Torres?"

"Aye." Edward inhales, the sound tired and agitated. "When I first met her, he wanted her alive."

"Reckon that won't 'ave changed," Thatch murmurs, "if she got away the first time."

"It's likely he'll finish the job himself." Edward's thinking aloud now, ducking out of the small hut where Aapo and Hornigold and the doctor reside. "He had her sent off to Seville the first time – reckon he won't risk that a second."

"Then we should set off with all haste," advises Adé again. "Amelie is a pirate  _and_  an Assassin, Captain, and while I do not doubt her strength I am wary of the Governor's resources."

"You think they'll torture her?"

Thatch looks between them, alarmed despite his fearsome reputation, but he remains silent while Edward's Quartermaster wrestles with words.

"I think we should not brush aside the possibility."

Edward exhales, long and slow, every step to the beach heavy. He asks aloud, though the words feel cold and empty, "Why should we risk our lives going after her? She's an Assassin, surely her allies will... Hang on." He stops walking, the memory of a tanned face and waves of stringy black hair coming to mind. "The Spaniard, where's he?"

Aapo stumbles from the sea, alone and wounded. He wakes from a feverish sleep and dreams and says Amelie's name, over and over – but  _where is the other Assassin_?

"The tavern still," answers Thatch gruffly. "He involved in all this?"

"I would guess so," Edward says. "Listen, I'll meet you on the Jackdaw – make ready to sail, Adé, I'll not be long."

He takes off at a run for the Old Avery, bypasses shouts of his name and promises of fights and drinks and tits, and finds Darío passed out on a table on the veranda. Bottles of rum lie around him while his feet hang off the edge; Anne watches tiredly but amusedly from the bar.

"Back for another, Captain?" she calls, straightening. "Ye took off for a bit there – ain't seen you or anyone important for a long while."

"Aye, sorry for that," Edward answers honestly. "I've lost someone – hopin' this lazy tosser can help me find her again."

Anne perks up at that. "He hasn't left that table all day, Captain," she tells him sincerely. "Hasn't really spoken to anyone but your own crew and the lasses that left not five minutes ago."

Edward considers this information for a moment.

"Alright," he says aloud.

He slings the passed out drunkard over his shoulder and makes for the Jackdaw as quickly as possible.

"Nice seeing you, Anne."

"And you, Captain. Don't be a stranger!"

* * *

 

Her attempted escape ultimately fails and, while her chances of success were slim, the price of failure is high.

His punches are solid and true, striking hard and fast, and Amelie gasps and clutches at waning strength while she  _endures_ what he gives her. This is what her family does, this is who they are – she won't let them down by cracking under the pressure.

"Sir," objects a voice, as the Captain lines up another punch. Amelie spits blood at his boot, watches the swab of spit and blood land on the dirtied leather. "She's to be alive!"

"She will be," snarls Captain Toby, her target. Her wrath for the man is violent and unrestrained – he personifies another of her failures; she failed to protect Aapo, pushed him overboard to save him but likely killed him instead. Now she looks at Toby and sees them all: Esme, Aapo, Pace, Hana, Val. "But we've time before we reach Havana. And the little  _wench_  –" Amelie gasps for breath, hunching over as he punches her in the stomach, aching for breath that she cannot inhale, "-has put up  _so much_  of a fight."

Amelie's breathing is laboured. Her lip is split and her ribs aching; her blood pounds in her ears,  _Christ_  but that bloody hurt. Hands on her arms force her upright, force her to receive another strike – this time to her already throbbing cheek. She feels like vomiting again, and tries to recall if doctors in the 18th century are familiar with the effects of concussion.

She doubts it but she knows that puking all over Toby's boots will not earn her any favour ( _because we're just best friends right now_ , she thinks sardonically after considering).

A back-handed slap and a barked order as Amelie slumps; her boots scrape along the deck as she's dragged away. She doesn't try to rise again when she's thrown into her cell, rolling sluggishly onto her back and dizzily attempting to scrutinise the bloodstains that mar her shirts, breeches and boots. Her blood, she realises, her reward for staying true to herself.

 _We endure_ , she thinks vehemently.  _We endure_. Her great-something grandmother did and so will she.

* * *

 

Darío rages when he wakes below deck and Edward meets him blow for blow.

His opponent, drunkenly stumbling and barely able to stand upright, is no match of him, and while Edward knows his own anger, Thatch stepping in to stop him going too far is unnecessary.

"What is this about?" Darío demands. He's more sober than he had been when Edward brought him aboard, eyes keenly flitting about the deck of the ship and the horizon. "Where is Amelie?"

"Question of the hour," Thatch snidely remarks.

Edward has known men to cower and beg after simply a glance from Blackbeard. Darío sneers at him.

"What is this?"

"Amelie's gone, man," Edward snaps. "Aapo was in a state when we left Nassau."

"What do you  _mean_  'gone'?" He's sober now, Edward thinks, in more ways than one. "What happened? Where is Aapo?"

"We were hopin' you could answer that fer us," Thatch says. "Yer man stumbled outta the sea and frightened the hell outta the pirates he came across. A fine achievement, in any other circumstance."

"We know Amelie and Aapo were tailing a man named Toby," Edward fills in. "He's due to meet with the  _Endurance_  before she docks in Havana." Darío pales and mumbles something in Spanish that Edward can't quite catch. Edward adds, his words meant to cut, "Fat lot of good you seem to have been."

"I was..."

"Drinking and fucking," Thatch barks, unimpressed. "An' look where that's got ye now."

Cowed, Darío swallows thickly. He almost appears to be speaking to himself when he mutters, "They did not trust me to help."

"Why would they?" demands Edward. He clenches and unclenches his hands, stretching the stiffness from his fingers and using the subtle ache in his bones to ground himself. Darío cups his jaw and the blooming red mark there, shooting him a scathingly dark look. "You've done nought but drink and piss and sleep since you arrived on Nassau, mate, what use would you have been to them?"

A pause and a reluctant, weary sigh. "You have made your point, Captain. What is your plan?"

"We intercept Toby's ship before he can reach the  _Endurance_ ," Edward says confidently. "Rescue our damsel from Templar hands before she even gets there."

"And what if we are too late?" asks Darío. Edward is sure the man doesn't mean the words to be snide but that is how they are received.

"Then we intercept the  _Endurance_ ," he snaps back. He's standing to his full height, thunderous and murderous, and a giddy thrill runs through him at the nervous look that crosses the Spaniard's face. The Devil of the Caribbean, they are beginning to call him, though now he is beginning to see why.

"A fool's errand," retorts Darío sternly.

"You're talkin' like you  _don't_  want to save the lass," throws in Thatch, standing at Edward's side.

"Of course I want to!" He's huffing in his fury, though still somewhat green from his drinking escapades of the night previous. "I simply believe we need to be cautious –"

"We don't have time for caution!" shouts Edward. "Every moment we waste, Toby gets farther away."

"The  _Endurance_  is a Galleon, lad," mutters Thatch, a hand around Edward's elbow to halt him from actions he won't regret. "I don't doubt yer captainin' skills, lad, but yer Jackdaw's odds against that sorta firepower leave much t' be desired."

"Don't tell me you're backing down from a fight, Thatch," replies Edward cockily. There's a dangerous undertone to his attitude, a confidence that comes from the knowledge that Edward  _knows_  he can succeed.

Thatch grins. "Never."

* * *

 

She knows she wouldn't have gotten anywhere, but she'd thought the churning seas a better grave than the one she will receive after the Templars are finished with her. Her shirt is in tatters off her shoulders, revealing bloody welts and split skin oozing blood. She breathes through the pain, knows it is far from over.

Her first meeting with Captain Lopez had been fraught with pain and insult. The man had spat on her while she was down, rubbing salt in the wound as she had heaved and gasped at his feet, using his free hand to wipe the blood from the thin, knotted strands of the whip he held. He flicked her blood from his hand over her bared shoulders and hair, sneering as he gestured towards the crew to remove her from his sight.

What a fool she had been in her attempt – but Amelie had seen opportunity and seized it, regardless of the consequences. Her movements had been slow and weighed down by fatigue and pain, desperate and jerky as she thrashed. She'd seen open sea and a chance, and thought her chances of swimming to freedom better than nothing.

Lopez and Toby had exchanged curt words as Amelie was forced across a gangplank between the two ships, onto the deck of a behemoth of a vessel. Larger than  _El Arca del Maestro_ , the little hope Amelie clings to slips further from grasp – what pirate would ever try to go against this ship, she thinks, especially with the red lions proudly emblazoned upon her sails? What pirate would go against a Spanish ship of this size and ferocity, and hope to emerge victorious?

"Governor Torres will pay handsomely for your return to his custody," muses Lopez, striding back and forth in front of her cell. She watches him through her hair, listens to the faint shouting above deck that signals Toby's departure. The seas are choppy now, rocking the ship violently – it reminds Amelie of the hurricane and the Jackdaw's first flight.

"Suck a dick, asshole," she snarls through gritted teeth. Her back throbs, oozing blood down her sides and onto the pooled fabric of her shirt, bunched around her front. She clutches it with two hands, the last shred of decency and honour she has in this situation, and her green eyes are fiery as she glowers up at the Spanish Captain.

His expression is blank. "There is that fire," he comments. "I wonder if the Governor will permit me to beat it from you."

"Good luck with that," she throws at him.  _We endure, we endure, we endure_. "Others have tried and failed."

"Even the strongest warriors have weaknesses." He makes for the stairs, boots clipping on the damp, dirty wood. "One simple strike is all it takes."

She watches him leave, her hand fisted against the grainy floor, and eases herself down to lie on her front. She cringes with the sting and throb from her back, the criss-cross of wounds stretching from her shoulders to her waist, and not for the first time wonders about Esme and home.

* * *

 

"There's a storm comin', Captain," Adéwalé muses before he parts from the helm. He barks his orders to the crew, demands their attention for the upcoming battle with the sea and the sky itself, while Edward wonders if it was wise to sail from Nassau without a fleet at his back.

Edward eyes the dark horizon, the swirling mass of grey clouds that signals their destination. He's a fool to sail towards this, Thatch is silently telling him, his words a dark, stern glare and silence, but Edward has survived this before. His Jackdaw has survived this before, was  _born_  from this, and he doesn't doubt the tenacity of his crew and his ship to pull through once more.

"This weather will slow the  _Endurance_ ," he explains to Thatch, still, despite years of friendship and comradery and a crew to call him Captain, earnestly seeking the man's approval.

"Or smash her to splinters," argues Thatch darkly. "I know yer lass if important to ye, Kenway, but yer a fool to sail into this."

Edward smirks. "We'll see who the fool is come the other side of this storm."

An aggravated sigh but Thatch doesn't storm away from him. "What d'ye hope to achieve from this?"

"Time," Edward answers. "I'd wager any Captain worth his salt will try to head to land for a storm like that."

"Any port in a storm," recites Thatch agreeably. "Sound advice from a fool Captain, it seems."

"If Toby's stuck in that storm, we can plan for him heading for land – intercept him."

"An' find out if yer lass is aboard or already gone."

"She's already gone, Thatch." The honesty of his statement is painful to hear, a thought that's disturbed him the night and day they've sailed. "I'm relying here on the  _Endurance_  being slow – if we open all sails and pray for the wind behind us, we might just catch her before she reaches Havana."

"Then why stop Toby at all?"

"What if Toby's ship has not met the  _Endurance_  yet?" asks Adéwalé, returning dutifully to Edward's side. "We cannot sail past the ship and to the  _Endurance_  and inadvertently aid our enemies."

Thatch hums thoughtfully and then, his expression neutral as he fixes his curious stare on the pair of them, "Why so much bother for one lass?"

"That," replies Edward, his eyes findingDarío where he stands at the foot of the stairs, "is a question that still needs answering."

A war raging for millennia, or so he's gathered, and Amelie stuck in the centre of this latest battle. Jim – or Mary, whatever they're calling themselves when Edward next sees them – had made little mention of Amelie's place in it all, of the constant war she's fighting with herself. She wants to fight, Edward knows, but she wants to seek out a lost friend as well – Jim had been less than helpful answering  _that_  particular oddity as well.

"I know maybe less than you do," he'd said, shrugging carelessly.

"I doubt that," had been Edward's snippy reply. "She trusts you."

"An' she trusts  _you_ , Edward. You just need t' give her a better reason to than her gut instinct."

Her trust in him, however misplaced she may think it is, has seen him mounting a rescue despite their tumultuous relationship. She's surrounded in mysteries and secrets that rival the deepest fathoms of the ocean in their depth, and Edward knows he's barely begun to scratch the surface of her stories.

"She trusts me," is his answer, "and the information she holds may be too valuable to lose to the Templars."

A barely there smile on Thatch's face. A hint of a scowl on his Quartermaster's.

Thatch huffs. "Still think we shoulda waited on Hornigold but if ya believe this plan'll work, then who am I to doubt?"

Edward has heard Thatch's stories in the taverns, heard the murmurs from the other pirates of the Captain who's gained Blackbeard's approval. The  _Devil_ , they're starting to call Edward, all on the word of a single madman.

"Aye, Quartermaster," Edward says aloud. "There's a storm coming."

* * *

She dreams of a boarded-up mansion, of dust in the air and light streaming through rotting boards. Gloved hands caress abandoned furniture absently, slick red hair pinned at the base of her neck and hidden under a hood. She doesn't recognise the building, doesn't recognise the gulls that sing and fight by the nearby harbour, but she thinks that once it might have been a home.

Peering through the gaps between the boards, she can almost imagine a ship in the dock; slight but deadly, with blood red sails and a strong and terrifying Captain.

Georgie huffs and steps away. " _Mother's told me too many pirate stories_ ," she murmurs.

" _No pirates here, love_ ," is the rough voice that replies. " _Just ghosts and thieves_."

A strange rifle aimed at her neck. Georgie's pistol aimed at his.

" _Which are you_?" she asks.

He's dark haired and handsome, familiar yet a stranger, with the trained eyes of a hunter and a steady aim to match. He stands in the light that breaks through the shadows, emerges from the dark where Georgie needs to disappear into it, and his lip curls as he takes in her hood.

" _You don't belong here_ ," he snarls.

She shrugs carelessly. " _I have a knack for being where I shouldn't_."

A deep frown, a feistier anger. " _Your kind don't belong here_."

Georgie's smirk is nasty. " _My kind doesn't care_." Her eyes sweep over the brooch on his chest, the cross that glints in the light, and she catches sight of another – a belt buckle in the shape of the tree of life. Beneath the shadow of her hood, she meets his eyes. " _Mr Cormac_."

Hands touch Amelie's feverish skin.

Her voice breaks when she screams.


	20. Endurance (Pt. II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Thatch idles nearby, a massive man whose mere stare sends the Captain into more fits of terror, while Edward's thumb traces the Assassin symbol etched into the wood of Amelie's bow_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't read Last Descendants yet, so any mischaracterisation will probably be fixed when i have! apologies for the wait!

She's curled up in a ball in the corner of a cell, her fevered forehead pressed against the cool, damp metal of her cell, and while the _Endurance_ is a large, lumbering ship, Amelie doubts the likelihood of rescue.

" _You must rely on yourself now, mon trésor_ ," her mother would tell her sternly. " _No one is coming to rescue you_."

In the corner of the room, the silent spectre inclines her head in agreement. She's a ghost and a hallucination, saying and doing nothing, but while her presence is as troubling as it is soothing, Amelie's tired and sore and in no state to begin to question what Georgiana Crawley is doing here at all.

A message, perhaps? An accusation? Is Amelie failing her family?

A pained groan when Amelie shifts reminds her of the oozing welts criss-crossing her back. Aside from a cursory once-over from the gloating Captain Lopez, no medical attention has been offered, and Amelie is going to die without it. She won't beg, though, not even when she's standing with her fist raised to pound on Death's door.

Currently, she thinks, death is the best ally she has.

Death protects her secrets. Death protects the future. Death protects Esme.

Georgiana is closer now, dark green eyes shadowed but keen; her hands, somehow, grasp the metal bars of the cell door. Her hair is the same fiery red as Amelie's, but thinner and sleeker, complimenting the deep green coat she wears beautifully. She stands over Amelie's slumped form and says nothing but her eyes swim with emotion. _Endure_. _We endure_.

Amelie thinks of Desmond, standing before an altar and bravely making an impossible choice. She sees him mouthing her name, sees him shaking his head, and she clears her thoughts of death.

She's not finished yet.

Georgie is silent, but there's a smile barely there on her lips. She's further back again, on the opposite side of the bars and idling near the wall; Amelie tells herself her ancestor is pleased because, really, who's going to tell her otherwise?

_Time to fight, Amelie_ , Georgie's saying now, though still no words leave her lips. _It's not over yet_.

* * *

In Edward's hands are a bow and a coat and a pair of hidden blades, trophies taken by Captain Toby.

Darío holds a half-empty quiver in shaking hands, though Edward knows there is no fear in the now-sober Assassin, only despaired _rage_. Edward's rough hand gripping tightly to his elbow is the only thing stopping him from ending Captain Toby's life.

The Captain kneels, a quivering, blood-soaked mess hurriedly listing off ports nearby with masses of weapons caches to disinterested men towering over him. Thatch idles nearby, a massive man whose mere stare sends the Captain into more fits of terror, while Edward's thumb traces the Assassin symbol etched into the wood of Amelie's bow.

"Only one treasure I'm interested in, mate," Edward says. Every bootstep on the slippery deck is thunderous; his crew part for him, a macabre procession of wickedness and blood and fury. "The _Endurance_."

Toby balks. "You're a damn fool!"

"That may be so," rumbles Thatch, "but that damn fool just followed ye into a storm an' survived with ne'er a scratch on 'im." He takes a menacing step forward. "Answer the question, _Captain_."

The men that wish to join them do, and the Jackdaw's crew are removing what cargo they can while Edward and Thatch watch Darío slink forward. Toby eyes the blades that shoot forth from the Spaniard's braces with a wary grimace and Edward is greatly gratified by the Assassin's kill, as swift as it is.

"We have not the time for the kill I would have preferred," snarls Darío. "That bastard deserved far worse."

"Aye, mate," Edward had agreed. He's confident the storm has slowed the _Endurance_ but not confident that it's slowed her progress _enough_. He nudges Thatch in the elbow regardless, and plays at ease. "Not a scratch on me, eh?"

Thatch shoves him away roughly. "Piss off, Kenway. Fix up your tinker-box before you take us to the jaws o' death, will ye?"

* * *

" _This ain't your house to loot, Assassin_ ," says Cudgel Cormac to Georgiana Crawley.

" _Who says I'm looting_?" fires back Amelie's great-something grandmother. Amelie sees herself in the woman, in the fiery glare and the straight spine, the unwavering resolve and steady hands. " _I don't want any trouble, Templar_."

" _Shouldn't have come 'ere then_." He still doesn't shoot. " _You ain't from around 'ere, are ya_?"

" _What gave it away_?" She pronounces every word carefully, purposefully, accent clear. A shoulder rises in a nonchalant shrug. " _I've been told I should make more of an effort to blend in_."

A huff of amused laughter. " _The gauntlet certainly gives ya away_."

Georgie shifts on her feet and rolls her eyes. " _What's this place to you anyway, Templar? Looks abandoned_."

The observation is accompanied by a casual gesture with her gauntleted hand. Cormac's eyes follow the action easily; slowly, he begins to lower his rifle. Georgie lowers her pistol. He's studying her sternly but with barely restrained curiosity.

" _How long ya been here_?" he wonders aloud. " _Thought the Assassins mighta filled ya in_."

" _Long enough_ ," is her vague answer. She won't tell him that the Assassins didn't send her here; they think she's off to Paris, after all, that she's moved on after learning what she can from the Americans.

" _This is Fort Arsenal_ ," replies Cudgel Cormac. " _My grandfather lived here, when he wasn't sailing his Morrigan_."

Georgie nods like this information means something to her.

" _What's this place to_ you?"

Georgie answers his honesty with her own.

" _The start of an answer_ ," she says. " _What do you know about Esme Addison_?"

* * *

"Well, Kenway?"

Edward lowers the spyglass from his eye.

"She's not there," he says after a moment. Agitation is evident in his actions, the twitching of his fingers on the warm metal in his hands, the restless shifting of his boots on the wood. Adéwalé stands at the helm, attentive yet quiet, watching intently and listening for orders.

The Jackdaw bobs quietly on the sea, Havana within sailing distance.

"What d'ye mean?" Thatch demands gruffly. "The _Endurance_ was comin' here!"

"She's not docked," Edward insists. He thrusts the spyglass into Thatch's hands, watches him with a silent dare in his glare as his mentor surveys the harbour. Blackbeard huffs, spyglass scanning the harbour for a man-o-war and finding not but brigs, frigates and merchant schooners.

"Well, tosh," he complains, handing back Edward's spyglass. "We can't linger 'ere, Kenway."

"I'm going ashore," replies Edward. "I can't risk leaving without finding out for sure."

"Aye, lad." Thatch's eyes turn skyward, to the British flag catching the wind rather than the black. "Ye better not be hintin' at somethin', lad, 'cause I ain't riskin' my hide on Spanish land."

"I'll go alone, Thatch, don't you worry."

"You will do no such thing."

The pirates turn, finding Darío standing nearby. He's weary and tired but determined, curls of black hair beautifully disturbed by the sea-breeze. He's decked out with a cutlass and dagger, a single hidden blade strapped to his left forearm – one of Amelie's. Edward looks at him appraisingly but mistrustfully; he has not forgotten the part Darío has played in this mess.

"Thanks for the offer, mate," Edward says grudgingly, "but I work better alone."

" _Que suerte_ *1," he says, "so do I. We will cover more ground this way."

Adéwalé appears impressed when Edward turns his eyes to him. Edward would much rather have his Quartermaster by his side than this Assassin; Edward has not forgotten how often the Spaniard has wished him dead either. He'd be a fool to fully trust him.

"You may wear our weapons and our robes," Darío says, "but you do not know our ways like I do."

"I know enough," replies Edward, affronted. "I don't need them anyhow – I've killed enough of your kind without them."

A dark expression crosses Darío's face. "Do not remind me," he warns, "or I may just change my mind."

A scathing retort is on Edward's lips, stopped only by the crossing thought of Mary or Kidd or whoever they are. The promise of redemption in the eyes of the Assassins, a chance to prove he's worthy of their friendship, their _trust_. It might not mean much, he considers, but in the long run it could be beneficial – one global Order after his head is all he wants, thanks very much.

"Fine," he says to Darío, "but if you get in trouble I'm not helping you out of it."

"I would expect no less," responds his new ally. "This changes nothing, _Capitán_. I still want you dead."

Thatch whistles. "Christ, Kenway," he mutters, once Darío has stepped aside; he's found his way to Seth and Donoghue, engaging the younger man, curiously, in what seems to be quite the serious conversation. "Just how many enemies 'ave ye made?"

Edward shrugs uncaringly. "Not nearly enough to give me a decent reputation."

Thatch's barking laughter carries over the crew. "Tosh, Kenway! Says the _Devil of the Caribbean_."

Edward grins proudly.

* * *

There's a rifle in her face again. " _Why you askin'_?"

" _Curiosity_." Stories she's heard that produce questions begging for answers. Tales of a ghost-woman summoned by a Hunter to right wrongs and enact deeply sought-after vengeance.

" _Curiosity killed the cat_ ," snaps Cudgel Cormac. " _You gonna be the cat_?"

" _Only if satisfaction will bring me back_." Her mother will be so disappointed with her, Georgie thinks, so careless with her life and her intentions; two years out of London and already forgetting lessons forged over years and years.

_I'm not a little girl anymore, mama_ , she thinks, _and you can't help me out here_. _You haven't been able to help me for a few years now_.

Georgie's spent two birthdays from home now – she's twenty, a woman grown and an Assassin to fear, and the answers she seeks can't be found between the lines of letters sent to Bureaus who cannot answer the same questions they're given. The answers she seeks she must find herself – leaving London, leave the Rooks and Jack and Jacob and _mother_... painful as it is, Georgie needs this.

Cudgel, suspicious still but the same curiosity driving him that fills Georgie's veins, that has filled her since leaving the old Davenport Homestead, appears to convince him to lower his rifle once more.

" _What d'ya want to know 'bout her_?"

* * *

"Lady Luck appears to be smiling upon you," greets Captain Lopez. He leers down at her, narrows his eyes in disgust at the state of her. "Let us hope her luck lasts, hm?"

It's a struggle to lift her head but Amelie does it anyway. "Piss off," she snarls, but the venom is lost to weakness, her voice hardly a whisper.

"The Governor has yet to return to Havana," Lopez continues, unperturbed by her thin threats, "and only a fool would wait for him to arrive."

_And Lopez is no fool_ , Amelie thinks. She's a prisoner of high value – _apparently_ , though every hour her chances of seeing sunlight and life again dwindle more and more – and docking in Havana and waiting for the Governor would be foolish, like the Captain said, even if she can hardly stand on her own.

"But never fear," Lopez sing-songs. "There's a lovely, comfortable cell waiting for you at our new destination."

Amelie rolls her eyes, manages to flick her hair out of her face to stare blandly up at him. "Please tell me you're not going to start monologuing." A quirk of her lips and a breathy laugh. "That might actually finish me off."

What an interesting conversation _that_ would be, she thinks. _Yes, Governor, so sorry Governor, but I started monologuing and our prisoner died of boredom!_ _The darndest thing_!

His lip curls over his teeth and he snarls at her, turning on his heel and stomping away. Left behind him, clutching a bowl and cloth between shaking hands, is a young boy. His cheeks are streaked with dirt and his hands and scrubbed raw but he scurries forward as the Captain strides by, kneeling by the bars and reaching through them. Trembling fingers gently peel away Amelie's shredded shirt, and he hisses in sympathy as she cringes, a sharp inhale of breath hastily cut off as she clenches her fist against her thigh.

"Sorry," the boy mutters. His accent is thick and his English unconfident, reduced to small phrases and single words, enthusiastic and earnest hand gestures that she reads with dull eyes. "We go to fort," he whispers, his hands laying warm cloth across the welts on her back. "Conttoyor."

She nods, though the name means nothing.

" _El Impoluto_ sail north," he continues. "Beast-ship."

Her brows pull together in a frown – _El Impoluto_? Amelie had thought the _Endurance_ a beast of a ship but this boy, with his shaking hands and lowered eyes, seems terrified by the mere prospect of this other ship coming near.

"Why is that important?" she asks. She can't keep the venom from her voice. "What's that got to do with _anything_?"

" _El Impoluto es rápido y peligroso_!*2" His words are hurried and his voice shakes. He pulls in a deep breath that shakes as much as his hands. "Strong."

The Jackdaw is strong, Amelie wants to argue, but the chances of Edward coming after her are slim – even if he was, would he dare risk a battle against a ship like this _El Impoluto_?

_You're on your own now, mon trésor,_ says her mother. In her mind's eye, Amelie sees Solange Crawley standing aside, passing over a wolf-engraved hilt and a curved blade. _Make us proud_.

Amelie nods to herself, and reaches through the bars to grab the boy's shirt sleeve. Her dull eyes are alight with determination.

"I need you to get me a knife," she says.

* * *

"Anything?"

Darío nods once. "The Governor has yet to return from a venture to Kingston," he reveals. He shoots Edward a critical, studious look. "I do not suppose this has anything to do with you?"

_Aye, everything_. "Why would it?"

The Spaniard shrugs nonchalantly but there's a twinkle in his eye as he looks at Edward. Edward gets the distinct feeling his unwanted ally knows a lot more than he's letting on.

"No reason," he murmurs. He removes a curl from his eyes and Edward watches it bounce into place by his eyebrow. "Dancers _talk_ , _mi amigo_."

Edward doesn't _feel_ like Darío's ' _mi amigo_ ' but he keeps that to himself.

"If Torres ain't here, then why wouldn't the _Endurance_ dock?"

Darío hums in thought. Edward can't help but think it strange how serious the man is now that he's sober and armed.

"Lopez is looking to replace du Casse," says the Assassin. "Perhaps he wishes to deal with no one but Torres or Rogers."

"Rise in the ranks, you mean?"

" _Precisamente_.*3"

"He won't want to pass Amelie off to just anyone," Edward adds and, never one to miss an opportunity, he needles, "though _why_ is beyond me."

"She is important, Kenway."

Edward _definitely_ prefers the drunk Spaniard from before. This man, this Assassin-ally, is far too serious and cautious for this liking, full of the same secrets Amelie and Aapo and Kidd all are. At least if the man had been drunk, Edward might have gotten a straight answer to his offhand comment.

"I've gathered that, mate," he says instead, with no small amount of dissatisfaction. As they begin to make their way back to the Jackdaw, failure weighing them down, he presses, "It's something to do with that lass Esme, isn't it? What d'you know about her?"

"No more than you do, _Capitán_."

"I don't believe that for a second."

An aggravated sigh and a falter in the man's steps. "It is not my story to tell."

"So you _do_ know."

" _Sí, Capitán_."

The knowledge twists Edward's insides out; Amelie _is_ capable of trust, he realises, though, it appears, incapable of trusting him. An annoyed huff leaves his lips at the thought, his mind racing with ways to change that – his goal, first and foremost, will _always_ be the Observatory, this he cannot doubt, but he's also sure that Amelie has some part in it and, by extension, this Esme woman. Maybe he ought to reach out some feelers, he considers, see if the Captains in his fleet have heard anything about a strange woman. Maybe he ought to start trying harder to get on the good side of the Assassins.

"Something else, _Capitán_ ," Darío throws in. "I heard from a... er, _contact_ here that Lopez left empty handed but not disappointed."

"How d'ya mean?"

Darío's smirk is wicked. "I heard your Jackdaw was instrumental in the downfall of _Punta Guarico_."

Edward answers with a one-shouldered shrug, feigning humility but proud his exploits are known. "Aye, what of it?"

"Do you think you could pull it off again?"

* * *

The boy's name is Mateo and he doesn't want to be on the _Endurance_. He dutifully sneaks her a dagger, using stealth skills rivalling that of her own, but his hands shake when he hands it over and he's so green in the face Amelie thinks he might vomit at any moment. The dagger itself is of beautiful make, small and dangerous, the length of the silver blade no longer than her palm. The hilt is simple, wrapped with worn black leather; a kill with this blade will be messy, lacking the usual finesse of her hidden blades or arrows, but beggars can't be choosers.

"What now?" Mateo's voice quivers, unsteady hands reaching out to grasp the cool metal bars of her cell.

Amelie rolls her shoulders experimentally; she just manages to bite back a groan at the pain that rockets through her. Her back is on fire, skin ripped and torn and open, and the slightest movements feels as though she'll fall apart. Blood is beginning to ooze again, trickling down her bared sides as one hand clutches still to the front of her shirt.

_Lovely_ , she thinks, biting back another groan as she rises to her knees. _I should just start singing_ The Streak _as I go to kill him. Booga-da, booga-da._

Mateo doesn't look convinced that she can do this. Amelie squeezes her eyes shut, breathing slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth. She can feel hands on her shoulders, slender and battle-worn, encouraging and ghostly.

_We endure_. The thought cuts savagely through the pain. _Pain makes us stronger_. _Endure_.

Her eyes flit blearily to Mateo, considering, but she quickly dispenses the thought – he's stealthy, yes, but not a killer yet. The boy is small and gangly, not yet a man in her eyes, and the green tinge to tanned cheeks only solidifies her resolve.

"I need to get out of this cell," she gasps. "Lopez has to die before we reach the Fort."

"And here I thought we had become friends."

Mateo is ripped from her cell with brutish force, Lopez's hand wrapped around the back of the boy's neck. A raw scream erupts from Amelie's throat, born of pain and desperation; open-palmed slaps smack against the rusted metal that bars her from them as Lopez lifts his cutlass. Light catches the golden hilt, ornately and beautifully designed, but Amelie has eyes only for Mateo, shuddering in the Captain's grip.

"The knife," drawls Captain Lopez. "If you please."

She hesitates but reaches through the bar and tosses the knife. It lands with a dull thud and a clatter beside the Captain's boot. Mateo is crying, ugly sobs that only serve to remind Amelie that he _is_ a _boy_ , and she's just drawn him into a fight he's ill-prepared for.

"Let him go," she says. She's ashamed of the pleading tone of her voice. "Please."

Lopez acquiesces. Mateo stumbles forward, hands reaching for the bars and for Amelie; they're thin and clammy, calloused and scarred, and they clutch hers fearfully. She starts to say his name, to calm him-

He gasps raggedly, stone still in her grasp, the glinting silver tip of Lopez's cutlass emerging from his chest in a sickening squelch that rings in Amelie's ears. Mateo coughs, the spray of blood splattering across Amelie's slack-jawed face as the boy dumbly stares at her. She doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to help – she's from a different time, a time of thousands of medical advancements, but here there is none of that. Here, she is stranded in the middle of the ocean and the boy clutching her hands is undoubtedly going to die.

Lopez wrenches his cutlass free and Mateo crumbles, coughing again. Amelie screams again, distraught and furious, while Lopez watches indifferently. He wipes the blade of his cutlass on Mateo's shirt, stoops to pick up the dagger, and sashays away, whistling a merry tune.

At the foot of the stairs, he pauses; he's one boot on the damp step and he's twisted to look at her, watching amusedly as she fruitlessly reaches for Mateo, aching to comfort and stall the bleeding, to _help_ in some way that's impossible from her cell.

"Such a shame," he comments, with no small amount of scorn. "The boy had so much potential."

Numbness descends upon Amelie as she watches Mateo turn pale in front of her, as she watches his chest slowly stop rising and falling. Her own wounds flare to life, the hopelessness of her situation beginning to set in, claws dug deep. Mateo's blood expands outwards, farther and farther, creeping under the cell door and warming Amelie's knees.

She grasps his cold, bloody hand in one of her own, and doesn't move for a long time.

* * *

It is rage that forces Edward to take the fort.

The _Endurance_ is still not in sight, not even docked, and he fights with fire at his back and the devil in his bones, hood drawn and a sneer across his lips. Darío gladly takes his rage in the aftermath, with the towers have crumbled and the walls have fallen, and around them are only the dead and the pirates that followed him in.

"What use was this?" he demands. A waste of time that's cost them valuably, he thinks. "She's not _here_!"

Darío is bent over the table in the commander's room, scanning naval maps diligently. If Edward knew the man better, and he's starting to, he'd say his silence was worrying, _deeply_ worrying. The Spaniard beckons him closer, one dirt and blood-covered nail pointing to a name inscribed upon the map spread across the table.

"I know where she is," he says thickly, his finger hovering just under the inscription of _El Impoluto_. "We are too late."

The doorway darkens with the silhouette of a blood-soaked Blackbeard. His lip curls as he catches the last of Darío's words and he storms forward, slamming his cutlass onto the table – directly over the small painting of the monster ship, _El Impoluto_.

He turns an expectant stare on Edward. "Well, Kenway?"

Darío flounders for words. "You cannot- That ship will destroy us if we try!"

"What do you know of it?" Edward asks. His words are contained, leaving no trace of his thoughts within.

"That she holds enough gold to set a man up for life," Thatch says seriously.

"That she is relentless," Darío says. Talking over Thatch's derisive scoff, he adds, "She is fast, _Capitán_. Her ram would turn your Jackdaw to splinters!"

Edward's lips edge upwards. "A challenge then?"

"What d'ye suggest man?" Thatch demands, leaning upon the table and staring Darío down. "She's yer friend! Ye'd leave her in the hands o' these Templars?"

"Of course not," Darío snaps. "I advise patience – within reason. Torres will have to return to Havana eventually and _when_ he does, Amelie will be brought ashore."

"And what if she can't wait that long?" Edward's eyes are stormy once more, though he would hazard to say that the storm within him has raged since leaving Nassau. "We don't know what she's been through – what if she needs us _now_?"

"Amelie is strong," Darío tells him firmly. "Stronger than _you_ know."

"And yet for all you claim to know her so well," Edward's voice begins to rise with his anger, "it seems I'm the better friend to her!" Darío opens his mouth to refute but Edward plunders on, "I won't let her waste away with the Templars until there's naught left of her to save. And what of this _information_ she carries, eh? You're not worried she'll give it up?"

"Amelie is _strong_ ," repeats the man, "and if you truly knew her at all, you would know her stubbornness well."

A snarl on his lips, Edward growls, "People can _break_ , man."

"You forget, _Capitán_." Edward hates the infuriating calmness of the Spaniard. "Amelie is an Assassin."

"That doesn't make her damned _invincible_!"

"Enough!" barks Thatch. "It ain't yer choice t' make, lad," he says to Darío, towering over the Assassin but succeeding in gaining nothing but a scoff. Thatch, to Edward, says, "If we're goin' after _Impoluto_ , we need t' prepare." He hums to himself. "Coulda been done with havin' the Queen Anne with us but I'm sure yer Jackdaw will do the job jus' as well."

"The Jackdaw can handle anything that beast gives her," Edward says, meeting Darío's fiery eyes with a cool stare of his own, "and she can return it ten-fold." He starts for the door, throwing over his shoulder, "You're welcome to stay here, man, if you'd rather stay _safe_."

He hears Darío grumble insults under his breath, the Spanish flying quick and easy from his lips, but the man's boots quickly stomp after him, too loud for a man who claims to call himself _Assassin_.

"Course, Captain?" Adéwalé is listening attentively as the crew prepare, and he steps aside easily as Edward reaches for the helm.

"We sail north, Quartermaster," he returns gravely, now that rage has quieted into quit apprehension. "Our prey loiters there."

"We're on the hunt?" Adé is watching Darío linger by the stairs, a look on his face so sour it could curdle milk.

"Aye, Adé." Edward takes a breath, his hands clutching tightly to the spokes of the Jackdaw's helm. "We're after _El Impoluto_. Weigh anchor and loose the sails!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – what luck.
> 
> *2 – El Impoluto is fast and dangerous!
> 
> *3 – Precisely.


	21. Endurance (Part III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Across the ocean, emerging from smoke and fire, is the Jackdaw._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEEEEE SHIT IS GOIN' DOWN AND I AM SO EXCITED FOR YOU TO READ THIS. 
> 
> HAVE FUN!

She's wearing his shirt and standing at the window, gazing across the fog and the sea, her mind a torrent of wild and distressing thoughts. The shirt smells like him, his sweat and the powder from his gun, the sea salt that clings to the Caribbean air. Their boots, tossed hastily near the door, are still coated in thin layers of sand from their late walk on the beach; their words join the troubling flood of her thoughts, regrets heavy in her mind.

Georgie said things she shouldn't have, confessed things better left hidden away.

Cudgel shifts on the bed, rolling onto his side. Georgie watches him, waiting, but the Hunter doesn't wake. A year ago, she might have slit his throat while he was so defenceless and felt no remorse at ridding the world of one less Templar. Now, she feels those strong arms wrapped protectively around her, his stubbled chin and jaw nuzzling into her neck on the cusp of sleep, and grasps the smooth fabric of his shirt in her fist.

 _This cannot go on_.

* * *

"Beautiful, don't you agree?"

Amelie can't look away from the dark crimson streak across the deck, being hastily swabbed at by the crew. Mateo's blood, the poor boy in endless sleep and his body thrown to the sea without a care; less than he deserves, for Amelie would have given him a proper burial at sea, a funeral worthy of an Assassin, the Assassin he could have been.

Captain Lopez, of course, is referring to the monstrous beast of a ship they are sailing towards. _El Impoluto_ is fierce and deadly, large in size but impossibly quick, awaiting their arrival with sails fluttering in the wind, large red lions emblazoned proudly. The crew around her titter excitedly, speaking in rapid and low Spanish; she can't understand the words, but Amelie knows what they're saying regardless. Awe and excitement are easily translatable, no matter the language.

Lopez grins from where he stands, next to his helmsman with the wind at his back.

"Your pirate does not stand a chance," he tells her matter-of-factly.

Amelie is inclined to agree. _El Impoluto_ has a wicked looking ram fixed to the front of her; one strike, and Amelie knows the ships she encounters are finished. She hopes and she plans, however futile they keep appearing to be, but none of these plans rely on rescue, not anymore. The likelihood of Edward knowing where she is, is slim. The likelihood of him coming after her even more so.

And even if he did, the Jackdaw will be ripped to pieces.

Amelie doubts Edward values her that much.

"The Governor will be most pleased with your retrieval," Lopez tells her, approaching at a languid pace.

"I suppose you believe you'll be promoted," Amelie comments.

"It is the natural order of things," agrees the Captain.

Throwing herself overboard is becoming more and more reasonable. Maybe, if she sinks deep enough, she'll find a magic portal that will send her home.

Amelie hums. The noise is quiet and disinterested, nothing more than an acknowledgement. She feels hollow and lost, sure of only one thing: _escape_. Survival is crucial in her line of work, the one lesson that is unchanging in the Brotherhood. Fight, and survive to fight another day so that you may survive all over again – endure, like the Crawley's always have, and _live_.

The handover begins with string of Spanish shouted across the ships from Captain to Captain. Amelie stands by Lopez's side, arms bound behind her back and skin on fire as the position puts strain on the welts and cuts criss-crossing on her back. What the Captain's discuss includes her specifically but Amelie's mind is wandering; she doesn't want to die here, even if this is the way she's always imagined herself going. Never has Amelie believed she will make it to old age, never has she once considered children – her life has always been surrounded by the belief that she must _endure_ , and children and longevity have never fit into that equation.

Not even when everything changed in the Grand Temple, when she lost a love and realised the chances of survival had dwindled far too quick, far too soon.

A warm wind rips through the sails overhead, disturbs her tangles of dirty, limp hair, and a voice cries out over the angry Spanish shouting, sending boots scurrying across the deck as men scramble to peer towards the horizon. Lopez has stopped mid-shout, spinning on the spot and furiously wrenching the offered spyglass from his quartermaster. Amelie shifts, following the commotion curiously, twisting her wrists in their bonds as she finds the source of concern: another ship.

Lopez snarls, striding to the side of the _Endurance_ and snapping an order to the Captain of _El Impoluto_. The reply is quick and heated, sounding so far away to Amelie as she fights familiarity with the approaching ship, as she fights hope and fear.

 _Idiots_ , she's thinking, shaking, while at the same time relief pours over her like a tidal wave. _Please..._

 _El Impoluto_ 's sails are unfurled further but she barely moves, against the wind that's beginning to howl. A storm is rolling in, large, angry grey clouds turning the afternoon sky dark; the first of the rain begins as Lopez shouts for the attention of his crew, tossing them into turmoil as they return to their stations.

"You will stay," he tells Amelie, "you will stay and you will _watch_."

There's a confidence in his voice that gives her pause, that makes her knees weak and her shaking worsen. _El Impoluto_ appears a behemoth against the ship coming fast towards them; this newcomer has her sails full with the wind, the ally that's against the massive Spanish warship. Even still, _El Impoluto_ is fast and Amelie can see clearly in her mind's eye the large, obscenely dangerous battering ram fastened to her bow – Lopez's maniacal grin tells her all she needs to know. One strike, and it will be over.

 _Please_.

Amelie's skin is rubbed raw from cuffs and ropes, blood oozing past her finger tips. It has no give, tied and knotted so tightly that struggling against them is doing more harm than good. A weapon is what she needs, or a sharp edge to saw through the coarse rope until she's free. Lopez's hand winds in the knot by the hip – Amelie's quick-fix of the destroyed tatters of her shirt – and he tugs her closer, caging her in against the wooden railing. It's a cruel mockery of the position she has so often taken on the Jackdaw, a place she has once stood in with confidence and surety, now reduced to a weakened prisoner.

A slight shift reminds her of the cuts and welts on her back; after a breath, the pain dulls to numbness, enough for Amelie to work through, even if she'd rather curl up in a ball and _not_.

 _El Impoluto_ is almost upon the newcomer now, a lumbering charge that Amelie can't bear to watch but feels herself unable to look away from. Beside her, Lopez has lifted his spyglass again.

"Fools," he muses, though there's a bite to his voice that Amelie considers _threatened_. " _El Impoluto_ is the pride of the Spanish Navy – what do they expect to do?"

 _To win_ , _I imagine_ , Amelie thinks wryly. Hope pricks at her again, though she wishes it wouldn't; what will she do if they win and board the Endurance? What if they don't know her? What if they pull an Edward and complete the mission, regardless of the consequences?

A cruel smirk twists Lopez's lips as he lowers the spyglass. Across the ocean, the smaller ship has narrowly avoided _El Impoluto_ 's battering ram, desperately throwing gunpowder barrels overboard to counter her.

" _El Impoluto_ will pluck that bird's wings," Lopez says darkly. Amelie's hands clench into fists behind her back. "Perhaps I will have my helmsman sail us past the wreckage – we may see the floating remains of your _Captain_."

Wide-eyed, Amelie watches the battle with renewed fear and hope.

 _Lopez can't mean_... the thought ends quickly, cut off by Amelie as she looks away and back again, desperate and terrified. _It can't be..._

She's too far away to know for sure, too proud to ask Lopez for clarification, but now that the idea has been planted, it's all Amelie can see. The Jackdaw against _El Impoluto_ ; the small, sly bird against the lumbering and agile behemoth. She's far too invested in the battle now, shaking far too much and straining against her bonds with far too little regard for her well-being.

 _Edward_ , she thinks, as her chest heaves and her stomach twists and churns in knots. _What the fuck are you thinking_?!

* * *

" _YOU ARE A DAMN FOOL_ -"

"UNLESS YE'VE SOMETHING DAMNED USEFUL TO SAY, KEEP YER DAMN MOUTH SHUT!"

Darío huffs, clutching to the railing under his hands with renewed vigour. His brow is twisted into a furious frown while Thatch's murderous expression returns to the monstrous ship unleashing another volley of cannon fire. Edward shouts for the crew to brace, spinning the helm of the Jackdaw as far as she'll go. His attention is on _El Impoluto_ – he can't very well afford to be looking anywhere else – but with every brief pause in the relentless charging and mortar fire, he finds his eyes straying towards the man-o-war anchored across the ocean.

"The Endurance," Thatch had said, as they'd approached and _El Impoluto_ had pulled away. "We might jus' pull this off, lad."

"Do not be so hasty," had been Darío's quick reproach.

"Fer chrissakes, man-"

"No, he's right," Edward had said, as he'd shared a quiet look with Adéwalé. "Man the cannons- this is gonna be one hell of a fight."

Edward doesn't doubt their chances of success – one second of hesitation or a slip in confidence could cost him _everything_ , after all, so he _must_ remain confident no matter what happens – but he's grateful for the distraction provided by the challenge of _El Impoluto_. It's a blessing to be given no time to consider the crew member's he's losing every minute, the damage to his Jackdaw, _Amelie_.

"Ready, men!" he shouts across the cannon and mortar fire. The broadsides are aimed and ready. " _Fire_!"

The volley rips through _El Impoluto_ 's masts and she slows. She returns fire just as quickly and just as furiously, raining fire upon them before Edward has the chance to shout for his crew to brace themselves.

* * *

Lopez is laughing.

Amelie's heart is in her throat; she's helpless, standing here unable to do anything but _watch_. _El Impoluto_ 's mast crumbles and falls. The Jackdaw's crow's nest has been blasted into splinters. They're too far away for Amelie to hear the screams but she can anyway, in her heart and soul, as easily as if she were standing and fighting on that deck with them. She looks away, hair stringy and plastered to her forehead and cheeks, squeezing her eyes shut so she doesn't have to see it anymore.

"A glorious sight, is it not?"

Lopez's crew are cheering and shouting and singing, clapping each other on the back like they've won some great victory, like they've had a hand in the battle that still rages. Amelie feels hands ghosting over her shoulders, tucked under her chin and encouraging her to lift her head high – _Keep watching_ , is whispered in her ear. _You're not the only one who can endure_.

"You look so like her," Amelie's mother used to say. "The same fire."

Amelie channels her great-grandmother now, imagines that she'd been able to meet her in person. Instead, Amelie had to be introduced to her through the Animus, had to watch her fight and battle and survive and _live_. Georgie was no stranger to heartbreak and despair – just like Amelie. Georgie was no stranger to doing what needed to be done for the sake of the Brotherhood.

"It's not over yet," Amelie whispers.

The words are not meant to be heard by the Captain standing at her side but they are anyway. He scoffs, shaking his head at what she imagines must appear to be blind optimism. It's not; this is realistic endurance.

More mortar fire is unleashed, more broadsides loaded and fired; _El Impoluto_ is slower now, masts broken and crumbling, holes torn through her hull and across her bow and stern. She makes one last stand, fires her broadsides one last time, loads her mortars again; Amelie watches the flashes and listens to the distant rumbles as they echo. She watches a great expanse of smoke rise from the ship, engulfing them both until there's nothing but shadows and silhouettes and brief flashes of light. Beside her, brows pulled tight in a stern frown, Lopez is leaning forward, hands clenched white-knuckle tight around the bannister. The celebrating crew have grown entirely silent, smiles slipping from their faces, laughs dying in the air; the wind howls around them and the rain batters the ship, chilling Amelie to the core. The tattered remains of her shirt clings to her like a second skin; her back stings with every drop.

Lopez is not laughing anymore. He suddenly starts shouting, barking orders in snappish Spanish as he grabs Amelie's elbow in a bruising grip that prevents her from leaving his side. Before she had nowhere to go save the churning deep seas, now she has somewhere coming to _her_.    

Across the ocean, emerging from smoke and fire, is the Jackdaw.

* * *

He sees her, battered and bruised and looking worse for wear, but _alive_. There's fire in her eyes, that familiar fire that makes her so damn beautiful, and a plan forming in that stubborn head of hers.

"She's alive," Edward reports in a breathy voice.

" _Gracias a Dios_ ," mutters Darío from beside Thatch. Edward bites back his rage, refrains from reminding the Assassin of how easily he was ready to give up on her.

Thatch doesn't.

"Bloody rich," he grumbles, peering through the spyglass as Edward retakes the helm. Adéwalé barks orders, prepares the men for another firefight and bloodbath. "How's 'at for faith in the lass' _strength_?"

Darío silently seethes and offers no refute.

"Quartermaster," Edward calls. He grips the helm tight, disguising shaking hands with boisterous confidence and loud orders. "How is she?"

"Worse for wear, Captain," replies Adéwalé honestly, "but I do not doubt that she will get through this."

Edward is asking about the Jackdaw and, while he is sure Adéwalé is aware of this, he gets the distinct feeling his answer refers to another.

"We should try to avoid anymore contact with broadside cannons," his Quartermaster continues sagely. "Your Jackdaw can only take so much more- anymore hits and her wings _will_ be clipped."

"What do you suggest?"

On Edward's other side, Thatch strokes his beard wisely. "Take care, Kenway," he advises. "This whole venture could be for nought if we kill yer lass while tryin' t' save 'er."

"Mortars will incapacitate the _Endurance_ enough for us to get close," Adéwalé adds. "Our best option is to board her as soon as possible, Captain."

"Amelie can dodge anything you throw at her, _Capitán_ ," puts in Darío. "She has dodged _you_ for long enough, no?"

Edward's lips twitch. "Alright then lads. Man the cannons!"

* * *

" _Take cover_!"

Amelie throws herself at the deck, grunting against the pain that sears across her back. Her ears ring as the mortars collide with the ship, striking the masts and the sails.

 _Are they trying to fucking kill me_? She thinks, dazedly attempting to rise, biting back a pained gasp as she disturbs her wounds once more. She bites her lip as she moans, pressing her forehead to the slippery wood and willing herself to stand and fight.

 _Need something sharp_ , she thinks. _Need to free my hands_.

More mortar fire whistles through the air; Amelie rolls away from the impact towards the stern of the ship, ducks her head as splinters of wood soar over her head. She hears Lopez shouting even still, hears men screaming around her, crying and begging for their lives, and thinks savagely that they are getting what they deserve.

She opens her eyes and sees the helmsman lying dead feet away from her, eyes staring glassy and unseeing towards the overcast skies. At his hip, half unsheathed, is a dagger, and Amelie struggles towards it desperately, eyes burning with pained tears with every movement, a wretched scream unleashed from her throat with the explosions and shouts around her.

Lopez catches her mere seconds after she's sawed through the rope binding her hands.

The knife feels right in her hands, the returning rage familiar, but each step she takes on the rocking _Endurance_ is difficult. Lopez is trying to rally his scattered, terrified crew while staring her down; her eyes swear his demise, for Aapo, for _Mateo_ , for _her_.

" _C'est où tu meurs_ ,*1" she promises in a ragged breath.

She throws the knife and clutches the rope that bound her in her hand, moving quick despite the burn across her back and shoulders. She wills herself to become numb to it again, looping the thick rope around Lopez's neck as she pushes the knife in further, deep into his shoulder blade. She pulls the rope tight and listens to him gasp for breath he cannot take, and holds on with all her weakening might.

He thrashes, swings with ill-aimed and frantic punches. The _Endurance_ rocks with another bout of cannon fire; the Jackdaw is closer now, within range. Around her, the crew scramble for weapons to cut away the grappling hooks fast clutching to the ship. Amelie peers over her shoulder, catches a glimpse of a white hood and a lifted cutlass, hears a growled shout that carries like thunder – she catches another, fleeting glimpse of Edward, is sure he sees her _too-_

Lopez throws himself backwards towards the helm, trapping Amelie between his body and the hard, mostly destroyed wood. Her back flares and a ragged, throaty scream escapes her lips as she releases the makeshift noose around the Spanish Captain's neck. Lopez stumbles forward, wrenching the knife free from his shoulder as he tosses aside the short length of rope from his neck. He's heaving for breath, spinning to face her, and tears are streaming down Amelie's face as she clutches to the broken helm, staying upright on shaky knees. She can feel nothing but all-encompassing throbbing from her back and shoulders, nausea rising from within as Lopez advances.

His blood drips from the blade, mixing with sea and rainwater upon the deck of his once fearless ship. His lips are curled in a snarl, dark hair matted to his forehead and in his bloodshot eyes, and he reaches for her, one large, bloodied hard curling in her soaked hair as he drags her closer.

Over his shoulder, Amelie sees the hooded figure reach for the rope, sees him swing across the gap and fling himself into the air-

Lopez cuts her on his way down, a shallow nick at her jaw that she hardly feels as she stumbles to her knees. Edward has plunged both hidden blades into the junctures between Lopez's neck and collarbone, pressing onto his shoulders and forcing him down. The cruel Captain is staring at Amelie, mouth moving soundlessly as he gargles up blood. She watches with sick satisfaction as he stains his white shirt, as he coughs it up and it smears his mouth and chin.

Cruelly, Amelie tells him, " _Vous l'avais dit_.*2"

Edward jerks free his hidden blades, and Lopez slumps forward. A weight off her chest, Amelie follows.

"Whoa, easy now," Edward says. He's awfully close, Amelie thinks blearily, so close that his warm breath dusts across her damp hair. She's her forehead against his shoulder, hands curled into loose fists at her side. She hears Edward inhale through his teeth as the sounds of battle rage around them. "Jaysus, lass..."

"We endure," Amelie murmurs dreamily. "Crawley's endure..."

"Aye, you do," he agrees. His hands are warm with Lopez's blood; he streaks it across her shoulders as he guides her up, ignoring her protests. "Let me look at you, lass."

"He killed a boy," she begins, "killed him right in front of me because he tried to help me. Threw him to the sea like he was _nothing_ – made me _watch_ , Edward, _god_..."

"It's over now, Amelie."

The battle is drawing to a close around them. Edward draws her closer to him, tucks her head under his chin as he inhales deeply. Amelie lifts one hand slowly, trails it along the leather of his armour and up, up, until she's gripping his shoulder to ground herself. She hears Thatch – _Thatch,_ Blackbeard coming to her rescue, what a damn story _that_ is – but barely hears the conversation that happens. The words are muted but Edward's voice is a low rumble against her ear, his arms strong around her; she's safe, secure, and her back burns and her body aches and _sleep_ is so tempting right now.

"Christ, Kenway, 'er back..."

"Eh?"

She's limp as Edward adjusts his hold, quiet as he rages, sleepy as Thatch loads and reloads his pistols over and over, firing shot after shot into the cooling carcass laying mere feet away from them. Edward starts to rise with her in his arms and her quiet protest, as weak as it is, is not ignored.

“I can walk, Edward,” she mumbles against his chest. She’ll adamantly refuse in the future that this ever happened, that she _ever_ let him carry her, that she ever thought his hold at all comforting.

“Aye, lass?” She feels Edward’s amused huff, a cold puff of air against her clammy forehead. “Shall we test that out?”

“ _Oui_ ,” she agrees, though she has no intention of moving.

“Fine,” Edward says, and he shows no intention of slowing his stride or setting her on her feet. Amelie reckons she’s dreaming it but, if anything, Edward’s grip on her seem to tighten.

She’s still in his arms when she finally drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 – this is where you die.
> 
> *2 – told you so.


	22. Wicked Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She’d been so distant and lost in hazy, pained delirium, but he’d said, “I’m not going anywhere,” and held her hand through the pain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so long wait is long and this chapter is probably definitely riddled with mistakes which i will fix at a later date! enjoy! x

_“…and I don’t wanna fall in love…_

_…with you.”_

* * *

“ _Where will you go now_?”

Georgie’s not sure how the people out here can stand the heat; it’s sweltering. Her shirt clings to her skin and her hair, as frizzy and unkempt as it has become, sticks to the back of her neck. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she stares at the horizon. San Inagua has offered her no answers either, nothing except further training and a Brotherhood well hidden from the world.

“ _Home_ ,” she answers.

The Assassin at her side, as tall as Cudgel but slim and agile and tanned, inclines his head. Georgie owes the man a great debt; his training will be invaluable to her now. She can’t help the excitement that titters within her, nor the grin that stretches her lips. Her mother will be so envious – Georgie has now perfected the rope dart, a technique the London Brotherhood hasn’t used for  _years_.

“ _I am sorry we cannot help you further_ ,” says her companion. “ _Her name is familiar to me but the secrets surrounding it died with those who knew her._ ”

Georgie nods. It’s just as she was told upon arrival, when the first of her questions had brought thoughtful hums and disappointed nods. She has grown to expect as much.

“ _The mystery remains unsolved_ ,” she murmurs. She retreats into the large manor at the top of the hill, revelling in the shade offered from the relentless sun and heat, and she considers. “ _Maybe mama has learned something else_.”

“ _Do you believe so_?”

“ _No_.” She pauses. Her belongings are scattered around her room, the bulky gauntlet too heavy to wear in the heat lying at the centre of the mess. “ _But anything is possible, I suppose. It has been ten years_.”

* * *

“Here,” Amelie says. It still bothers her that she can’t stand on her own just yet, but the weight of the key beside Esme’s pendant has grown too much for her. Edward holds his hand out and she drops the key into his waiting palm. “Compliments of Lucia Márquez.”

“Ah. Thank you – this will save me a wasted journey.”

Amelie hasn’t spoken much since they arrived in San Inagua for her recuperation. Edward had watched from afar as Darío sunk to his knees and begged her forgiveness, as Thatch had quietly, gruffly told her about Aapo, about the likelihood of his survival. She’s retreated into silence and contemplation, slow in her movements, wincing at the strain of moving her arms too much and stretching the torn skin of her back.

Edward has seen the skin only one, the welts and cuts, and his simmering rage has enflamed into fury and regret that her tormentor hadn’t suffered  _enough_.

It’s the most physical of her wounds, the most plain to see, but her muttered, sorrowed words in the bowels of that ship remind him that the pain descends far below the skin.

“Why’d you keep it anyway?” Edward asks. Under the shade of the rotting veranda, Amelie fans her overheated skin with her hand; her cheeks are tinged pink with sunburn. At the questioning tilt of her head, he continues, “The key.”

“It seemed a waste to leave it there,” Amelie says. “I knew you were collecting them so… why not?”

He waits for something else, for a sarcastic comment of witty remark. There’s nothing.

“Alright. Cheers, lass. I mean it.”

His sea blue eyes are earnest. Amelie’s eyes are on the opening to the cove, to the horizon he can see through the cliffs and trees.

Her reply is quiet and as honest as his. “You’re welcome.”

A brief lull in the conversation as Edward inches closer, joining her on her bench. He can hear the crew singing on the sand, setting up the bonfire for the night. He can hear Thatch’s booming laughter from the tavern, rising high over the winds and the violins and the voices.

“Edward?”

He watches her wrestle with words, watches her twist the fabric of her shirt between shaking hands –  _his_  shirt, a spare he’d handed her when he’d walked into his cabin and saw the bandages wrapped around her back and chest. Her shirt had been a bloodied, destroyed mess, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. She’d hardly registered his presence at first, dazed and exhausted. She mumbled a thank you when he’d gently brushed her hair back from her face, called him Desmond and said she missed him.

She’d been so distant and lost in hazy, pained delirium, but he’d said, “I’m not going anywhere,” and held her hand through the pain.

“Mm?”

She takes a breath. “Thank you.”

He studies her, her burning red hair blazing copper in the sunlight, her haunted green eyes and her quivering bottom lip. She swallows, waits for his answer with an anxiety she’s never had with him before. She shifts on the bench, catches her shirt on the bench; he leans forward to pluck it free for her, close enough to hear her hitched breath as she struggles to rein in her tears.

There are freckles dotted across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, light and barely there, hidden behind the dark and mottled bruising that has a habit of cropping up whenever Edward starts to forget what she’s been through to come back to him.  _One day longer_ , he thinks again, the same words that creep into his mind just when he thinks he can move on.  _If I’d been one day too late_.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

* * *

“We could go to Tulum,” Amelie says. Her wounds are healing nicely, her wit and sarcasm and insults returning to his ears.

“We could,” Edward replies, “but I like my head on my shoulders, thanks all the same.”

“They’d appreciate what you’ve done for me, Edward,” she says sincerely. He’s an arm around her shoulders, her head against his chest as they lounge on the beach near the bonfire. Edward is strangely content, sipping from a half-empty bottle of rum that he shares companionably with Amelie at intervals. She doesn’t drink as heavily but Edward knows from experience that it’s taking the edge off her hurts.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he replies. “Think it’d take a miracle for them to appreciate me.”

She smiles, shaking her head almost fondly. Errant curls of her hair tickle his bare skin when she moves.

“You just need incentive that isn’t your  _greed_.”

He gasps in mock astonishment. “A pirate without greed to motivate him? What sort of man do you  _take_  me for?”

She punches his arm, the hit weak and with none of the strength Edward knows Amelie is capable of. The sky is a bright canvas of orange as the sun sets over San Inagua; the crew of the Jackdaw rise in chorus of their chosen shanty of the night, a drunkenly slurred rendition of ‘Lowlands Away,’ and Edward sings along in Amelie’s ear as she dozes on his shoulder.

She murmurs the words along with him, hesitates when she doesn’t know the next phrase, and smiles lazily when he helps her without being prompted.

Edward finds he quite likes having her in his arms; likes squeezing close and nosing into her hair, tracing patterns on her skin so gently she barely feels it. It’s through this action that he finds the words inked on the skin of her wrist, usually hidden under the strap of her hidden blade.

 _We endure_ ; elegant, curling letters in black, hidden under scars and inked over the top of others, two words stretched across her skin. He traces them with his forefinger, lost in his thoughts.

“Edward,” Amelie starts softly, his name on her lips a plea and a promise and a whisper. “Do you think it’s possible for us to… communicate with people in our past?”

Surprised, he asks, “Why would we need to?”

Amelie inhales shakily, brows pinched in thought. “When I was… In my cell, I saw, I  _think_  I saw…” She pauses, then, with some effort and a hand from Edward, pushes herself to sit cross-legged in front of him. The flames from the bonfire behind her are the same burning shade as her hair. “Please, don’t think I’m crazy.”

“Too late for that lass,” he tells her honestly. Mystery shrouds Amelie Crawley – an Assassin with different weapons, a woman acting out of her time. Edward had wondered about her, after meeting Mary Read, had wondered if there was something about these strange Assassins that  _changed_  women. He doesn’t think that’s the answer to the question mark that is Amelie.

She shoots him a weak glare. “I saw someone,” Amelie admits to him in a quiet voice, “or  _hallucinated_  her, I suppose.”

Edward says the first name to come to mind, itching for an answer to one of the many questions in his mind. “Esme?”

Amelie shakes her head, and Edward hides his disappointment as well as he’s able. Another time, then.

“No… I think… I’m certain I saw an ancestor.”

 

Edward leans forward, elbows on his knees, while Amelie puzzles it all out in her head. Months before Lucy staged Desmond’s break out, when Rebecca had finished the Animus 2.0, her  _baby,_ and wanted to  _test it_ …

“I have an ancestor who was alive during Jack the Ripper’s reign of terror in London,” Amelie says. She avoids Edward’s eyes, worries that her ramblings and wonderings will finally make him realise what a mess she is. “You won’t know who he is and I won’t tell you but… she helped take him down, saved London. I…  _saw_  her do it and…”

 _Bleeding effect_ , it’s called. She’d been in the Animus for a day, two at most, and for nothing but curiosity’s sake after she’d told Shaun and Rebecca that she was sure she had an ancestor alive at that time. There were no pieces of Eden there, nothing worth investigating, only Amelie’s family tree and a killer who’d never been caught.

“Georgiana,” Amelie says. “She… she stood over me, helped me somehow.”

Edward cocks his head to the side. “You saw your  _ancestor_?”

Hearing him say it makes Amelie realise how ridiculous the whole thing sounds. “You’re right,” she says around a hysterical laugh. She hides her face behind her hands. “It’s stupid.”

“Here, now,” he says, reaching for her hand and entwining their fingers. His hands are warm, the skin rough. Amelie wishes she hadn’t sat up – those arms had held and protected her as he took her from that monster ship, those arms around her while he sang in her ear… this conversation could have  _waited_ , damn it!

“I’m beginnin’ to question a lot of what I think about the world,” he tells her. “Maybe things aren’t what we think, eh?”

Amelie can still feel the weight of Georgiana’s stare, the caress of her hands against her hair. She’d felt  _real_. She nods, helpless against the confusion – what she wouldn’t give to have Shaun and Rebecca with her, the two people she trusts most in the world, the last two  _alive_.

Edward’s eyes stray over her shoulder and darken slightly.

“ _Capitán_ ,” greets Darío warily but his eyes are on Amelie. She smiles in greeting, reaches towards his hand; he moves out of reach, looking troubled and sober.

“Darío,” she tries. In her peripheral, Edward starts to rise. Ahead of her, running at a jog from the tavern and shouting Darío’s name, is James Kidd.

“What is it man?” asks Edward.

“Word from Nassau,” the Spaniard admits in a breath. Amelie realises his eyes are swimming with tears as Edward helps her to stand, careful of her skin as it pinches over her wounds. Kidd shouts his name again, a warning if ever Amelie heard one. “About…”

When the words won’t come, Amelie watches helplessly as Darío and Edward share a knowing look, heavy in secrecy and knowing. Edward shakes his head minutely; Darío answers with a nod that’s just as small. He won’t meet her eyes.

“Edward,” she tries.

“Kenway,” says Kidd, shaking his head insistently.

Edward’s shoulders are rigid. “Lass…”

Darío ducks his head, curls of black hair casting his face in shadow and hiding him from her. Behind her, the crew of the Jackdaw burst into another song, one Amelie recognises from all those cheesy pirate movies Esme used to force her to watch when they felt safe enough to, but she hardly hears.

Her world crashes down around her. Her knees buckle and she  _screams_  her throat raw, rocking against Edward’s grip as he kneels next to her, sweeping her into his arms as the singing and the laughter stops.

 _Oh, Aapo, Aapo, I’m sorry_ ,  _I’m so sorry_.

Darío makes sobbing promises and kneels and begs for forgiveness –  _I’m to blame,_ cariña _, I should have been with you_  – and Amelie is numb to them all. It rains in San Inagua after the news reaches the shore, heavy sheets of warm water that soak them within minutes. It rains on and off for weeks, thunder rumbles and lightning cracks over the sea; the wind howls like Amelie’s scream on the beach, nature standing at her side in her grief.

He tries to encourage her to leave the manor, to leave the  _grounds_ , to do something other than watch the ships sailing to and from the island. When his words fall on deaf ears, he leaves her be, leaves her to Darío and his pleas. When the storms pass and the sea calms, Blackbeard takes his leave, visiting her one last time at the manor. He tugs her into a rough and loving bear-hug and wishes her well; leather and gunpowder follow him wherever he goes, and the smells linger on her shirt even after he’s gone.

“Ain’t yer fault, lass,” are the words James Kidd and Mary Read leave her with, slumping onto the bed next to her and rousing her from fitful sleep. “Our lives are in danger from the minute we enter the Brotherhood, ye know it and so did Aapo.” Mary slaps her on the shoulder, grasps her tattooed wrist, and demands, “Now get outta bed and quit feelin’ sorry fer yerself. There’s work still t’ be done.”

Amelie thinks of her ancestors, of Georgiana and Charlotte, of burns and cuts and welts, and monsters and fights, and forces herself to leave her room.

She wears one of Edward’s shirts and finds one of her pairs of breeches and walks barefoot to the tavern with Mary. She drinks with the Jackdaw men and sings with Edward’s arm around her shoulders, and when Cuddy shouts for her to  _sing us a song, Amelie_ , she knows exactly which one to lend her voice to.

Esme played it for her once, sang it under her breath to fill the unbearable drives from city to city, and when she offered to teach it to Amelie, Amelie hadn’t the heart to tell her that she already knew the words because Esme sang it so damn much. Her voice is shaky but the rum has made her confident and if she’s crying when she begins, she refuses to admit it.

 _Kind friends and companions, together combine_  
And raise up your voices in chorus with mine  
Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain  
For we may and might never all meet here again

* * *

“As nice as I find it having you in my bed, I can’t wait until you’re in your own.”

Amelie pouts, faking offence. It’s a comfort and a terror to be on the sea again after months on land; the swaying of the ship reminds her of nights in a dark cell where the sounds of the waves and a hallucination were all she had for company. Edward is a man of the sea, though, and he is not to be deterred from his first mistress.

“Are you really sick of me already?” she asks, rising onto her elbows. The ship’s doctor is steadfast and stern in his belief that she’s not combat-ready yet and Amelie is loath to argue with the man who nursed her back to health – as much as she’d like to. She’s too afraid of his promise to tie her to Edward’s bed until she makes a full recovery to disobey – though the look in Edward’s eye when he’d overheard had been nothing but thoughtfully mischievous.

Amelie can’t help but believe he’d very much liked that idea.

“Aye,” is his quickfire response. “Sometimes I consider tossing you out on your arse.”

Amelie laughs. “You wouldn’t.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t.” He faces her, hair loose around his shoulders and kicking his boots off. He drapes his coat over the back of his chair, stretching his arms over his head and revealing a delicious line of tanned, scarred skin. Amelie almost reaches out and touches it.

“Went to too much damned effort getting ya here in the first place.”

He throws himself onto the bed beside her, not nearly as careful as he was when she’d first come back to the Jackdaw, and stares at the ceiling. Amelie’s scars are healing slowly but still bothering her and Edward is not budging in his resolve to keep her weapons from her until she is further healed.

“Stubborn as a mule, you are,” he’d told her when she’d complained and insisted she was fine (although he’d been quick to joke that she was wise insisting this out of the reach of the doctor). “Knowin’ you, you’d get right back out there and nearly get yourself killed.”

She had wisely kept her mouth shut, even as she’d internally screamed that it wouldn’t be the first time. She can’t remember the sound of Shaun’s voice anymore but she can remember the times he’d chewed her out for her impatience – she never learns.

Edward’s shirt is loose tonight, thrown hastily on after a brief stint at the wheel, and the neckline flops open, the ties undone. Amelie’s fingers move of their own accord, tugging the fabric aside to peer curiously at the black ink on his skin.

A ship proudly inked over his heart – for his love of the sailing, perhaps?

He jerks as her forefinger traces the mast and sails, his right hand rising to gently grasp her wrist.

“That tickles,” he murmurs.

“It’s beautiful,” Amelie comments. The lines of ink on his skin make her conscious of the two words on her wrist, the only tattoo she’s ever gotten, the only one that matters.

His fingers flex around her wrist, his palm warm and rough. His thumb traces those same words, silent questions on his lips, brows furrowed as he rises to rest on his elbow. Amelie vaguely recalls saying the words when he’d found her, when Lopez’s body wasn’t yet cold and consciousness was slipping from her grasp.

“My family’s mantra,” she explains softly. “We take what the world throws at us and we endure it.”

“This the only one you have?”

She nods. “I was careless,” she admits. “The Templars caught up to me – I barely escaped.”

“This a habit o’ yours?”

She shrugs in answer, a smile teasing at her lips.

“It’s a shame,” he says. “Reckon you’d look good with a bit more ink on your skin.”

“Is that a hint, Captain Kenway?”

His lips twitch. “Maybe.”

She lays her head on his chest, over his steady heartbeat. “And what would I get, oh Captain, my Captain?”

He huffs a laugh. “Now I know you’re mocking me.”

She grins but tells him honestly, quietly, “I’ve thought about an eagle, to honour a fallen friend of mine.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of those,” he says. The words aren’t meant cruelly, Amelie knows. “Don’t know if you have enough skin for that.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she tells him sadly. “I’ll cover every inch of my skin in ink if it means bringing them all back.”

“Quite the sacrifice.”

“Not enough.” She takes a breath. “That’s why I don’t get a tattoo for everyone I’ve lost – there’s too many to count.”

“What makes this one so special then?”

 _He saved the world at the cost of his own life_.

“I loved him,” she admits, “I loved him too late.”

Edward’s chest rises and falls as he inhales deeply. Amelie rises, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

“Hindsight is an awful thing, eh?” he murmurs. His eyes are cloudy and fixed on a point in the rocking ceiling. Amelie gets the feeling he’s talking from experience.

Amelie thinks of Desmond, of hasty, desperate kisses on a dais. She thinks of Esme, of kisses in the dark and long embraces against the sunset, of angry and bitter words thrown without care and sharpened with the edge of a blade.

She’s lost them both.

“Yes,” she agrees. “It is.”

The tips of his fingers brush against the bared skin on her hip when her shirt has ridden up. He grazes along healing scars, wedges of risen pink skin, and goose bumps rise on the backs of her arms. It feels too intimate, feels too  _right_.

She takes a breath.

“Why did you come after me, Edward?”

The quiet stretches on.

“You know me,” replies the man. “Greed is my only motive.”

A year ago, Amelie might have believed him. Now, she’s not so sure. His hand drifts to her thigh, resting there for a moment too long. Amelie briefly entertains the thought of leaning in close, close enough to see the clear blue of his eyes, to see his scars up close, to trace them with her own fingers.

There’s a flash of teeth as Edward grins, a twinkle in his eye like he knows what she’s thinking. He removes his hand from her thigh, reaches up to tug on a stray curl of her hair – the action is so familiar to her now that it’s dizzying. When did things change between them?

Edward is about to speak, the words barely leaving his lips before Amelie leans down and steals them in a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song Amelie sings in this chapter is '[here's a health](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abJVtHuAA_8).'
> 
> hmu on my [tumblr](https://chesswatchesclouds.tumblr.com) if you fancy a chat!


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